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muertarte · 8 months ago

Text

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @recoveringdreamer @muertarte

SUMMARY: Looking for a controlled fight, Metzli signs up for a one time match at the Grit Pit, and Felix is assigned to be their opponent.

WARNINGS: Head Trauma

The pen scribbled on the paper, far too many words on the sheet to really incite any desire to read. That wasn’t what the vampire was there for anyway. Despite the warnings of deadly fighters and inevitable pain, Metzli signed where necessary and threw the pen aside when they were done. “Through the double doors and then first door on the left. That’s where you’ll change.” The man droned, voice tired from its repetitive and constant use.

“Hm…” Metzli nodded and made their way to the room to change. Like the rest of the place, it was just as dingy. They could smell the scent of long dried blood and stale sweat. With an exhale, they put on their garments, taking a moment to stretch before they stepped out to take a seat near the ring. Why did they even call it that, Metzli wondered? It was in the shape of a square, not a circle. They huffed out a curious sigh and stared in the distance, waiting for their name to be called out.

They’d never really liked fighting the temp fighters. They’d never really liked fighting the contracted fighters, either, but they especially disliked fighting the temps. More often than not, people who signed up for one-night-only gigs at the Grit Pit were full of a foolish confidence that always ended bloody, and Felix hated being the one to rip that away from them. He wasn’t sure if the distaste they held for these fights was a well-known thing or not; it was tempting to believe it was, to think that their name on the roster beside a one-night-fighter tonight was another one of Leo’s cruel punishments, but they knew there was every possibility that no one knew at all. Not everything was their ex out to get them; sometimes, things sucked independently of Leo.

Knowing that was almost harder.

There was a separate locker room for the temps; Felix had never really known why. Maybe it was a way of avoiding the two groups of people mixing too much, a way of keeping them out of one another’s ears. Even with the tightness of the contracts the full-time fighters were under, it was possible to say too much. Or maybe the higher ups just didn’t want the short term fighters to see how miserable the full-timers were and back out. Knowing the Grit Pit, it really could have been either.

The door to the fighters’ room opened, and Leo stepped in. “You’re up, Fe,” he said, motioning for them to stand. Felix sighed and got to his feet. “Temp fighter, so kill them if you want to. Nobody gives a shit.”

“I don’t want to,” they said flatly.

“Maybe the cat does.” Leo grinned, striding over to throw an arm around their shoulder. Felix flinched, but didn’t pull back. Pissing Leo off wouldn’t get him anywhere. “Full shift tonight. This crowd likes that kind of thing. They went nuts when Dragontooth went full snake. They’ll love Wildcat biting someone’s head off, too.” He squeezed. Felix swallowed. They knew they couldn’t say no.

“Do you have the tranq ready?”

“Yeah, yeah. Stop whining, I’ll shoot you when I have to.”

“Okay.” They stripped off their clothes, ears burning at the way Leo watched. “Let’s go.”

“Let’s go,” Leo agreed with a grin. He shoved Felix towards the door to the cage; the crowd roared in anticipation.

—

The smell of the ring permeated around the entire area, coating the back of the vampire's throat with a foul taste. A flavor that could only be concocted by long, brutal deaths. Metzli gritted their teeth, almost excited to see how exactly their opponent would take their approach. The pain would surely impact Metzli for weeks, and they counted on it to displace the chorus of grief they couldn't mute. It sent pins down every nerve, digging deeper still from every direction. Not being able to find the source made it impossible to function, irritating the fragile structure of their emotional spectrum.

“Bernal.” A voice cut through the noise, and they stood up. They were led to the ring and placed in a corner. Dark eyes loomed over the empty spot across from them, and in a matter of moments, a nervous individual filled it. To Metzli, they seemed pretty non-threatening, especially with the nervous look on their face, but they knew better. If the rumors about the Grit Pit were true, then the human-like flesh was likely an illusion of some sort. It'd be in their best interest to not underestimate their opponent. Metzli had a family to return to, and it was their intention to blow off some steam and then head home that night.

Walking to the center when prompted, Metzli took a deep breath and let their emotions come for them beneath the surface. They offered their hand for a shake, readying themself to unleash their sorrow through their fists.

They were more or less shoved into the ring, Leo careful to show them the cattle prod in his hand as a warning. He didn’t have to say anything to get the message across. Shift, or we’ll make you shift. Felix swallowed, already uncomfortable. It would be worse if the shift was forced, he knew; when the jaguar was agitated, he went for the kill every time. When Felix initiated the shift on their own, without any physical prompting, the cat sometimes chose not to rip his opponent to shreds. The Pit wouldn’t protect a temporary fighter, wouldn’t care whether or not this person left the ring on their feet or in a body bag. That meant Felix had to take the initiative.

They were a little confused, at first, when their opponent stuck out a hand. The Grit Pit wasn’t like traditional fighting sports; no one shook hands before a fight, no one wished luck to their opponent. Most of the time, Felix was already shifted by the time they got out into the ring. Tonight, he awkwardly shook the hand placed in front of them and tried not to worry.

The crowd grew restless, jeering and yelling in the stands. Something hit the side of the fence separating the fighters from the rest of the room; Felix glanced over to see Leo staring at them, chin tilted up slightly. Time to shift. Hesitantly, and without saying a word (“No one wants to hear you talk,”), they took a step back and let the shift begin to take hold. Bones snapped; fur sprouted. The crowd cheered wildly.

—

A sharp sensation of ice stabbed into the vampire's spine as they watched their opponent shift with a mixture of intrigue and fear. The rumors were true then, and there was nothing Metzli could do except fight for their life. Because of the drooling maw was any indication, they feared they weren't meant to step foot outside of the ring of their own volition. No, they'd be swept away into a dustpan or tossed into the streets for someone else to find.

Taking a deep breath, Metzli curled their fist tighter, eyes shifting wildly to assess the area as quickly as they could while a jaguar fully took form in front of them. There wasn't really much to work with, and the anxiety of that realization sent needles into their arms. Or lack thereof.

Metal surrounded them, a cage designed to protect only those who watched, but Metzli thought perhaps they could use the bars to their advantage and they leapt up. The small arena roared, flesh meeting the cage excitedly, almost too jarring to keep focus. Regardless, Metzli persisted, holding tightly to their perch above the jaguar as they waited for the first move.

The shift was a quick one; it usually was, when Felix didn’t fight it. Privately, they hoped that the fact that they were shifting of their own volition and not in the face of clear and present danger might soothe the jaguar a little, might make him a little less willing to tear heads from shoulders and turn flesh into something marred and torn from the bone. He wasn’t sure if this was a thing that could be done; it was probably a foolish hope to carry.

With the transformation complete, the jaguar stretched his legs. He was angry, because he always was. He’d woken up in a cage, because he usually did. He yowled his displeasure, circling the person who had been placed in the cage alongside him. The lack of a heartbeat in their chest reminded him of the farm, the fire raging around him. It wasn’t a memory the jaguar enjoyed.

His opponent leapt, and the jaguar tilted his head up to watch them find a perch. He disliked this strategy, preferred fights to take place on the ground, but he was capable of climbing just as well. With a running head start, he leapt upwards towards his opponent, jaw aiming to wrap around their midsection to pull them back to the ground.

—

Animals were never to be underestimated. That was a truth Metzli had known since they had been human. Even as a vampire, sharp claws still tore skin, and a jaw that could apply two tons of pressure could easily tear off their head from their neck. And as the jaguar strategically leapt its way to Metzli with its jaws ready to clamp, they felt genuine fear that the fight would end in less than a minute, and they'd be a pile of bloody, clumpy dust.

They couldn't let that happen.

Metzli swung their legs back and hooked their toes to the side of the cage, using the tension to pull themself back a foot or two. They grabbed at the ceiling again and utilized their new position to coil their knees to their chest and dropkick the jaguar as hard as they could.

It worked. Mostly. Save for the fact that their pant leg got caught in one of the jaguar's claws. Metzli was pulled down and lost their grip in the process. They landed unceremoniously to the mat with a dull and hollow thud, but they wasted no time in becoming flush with one of the sides of the cage to prepare themself again. The adrenaline was pumping, and they couldn't even be bothered to realize there was a wound on their leg.

Strong legs knocked the jaguar back before he could earn a taste of dead flesh, though his claws tore through his opponent’s leg all the same. The stench of the other’s blood was far from the sickly sweet smell he’d grown used to in the ring, though it wasn’t the strangely textured, glittery substance he’d once gotten a mouthful of in the woods, either. This one was more like those on the farm, perhaps — the ones who had stilled only when heads were torn from shoulders.

It was fortunate for the vampire that the jaguar lacked the capacity to strategize. Had he been more capable of higher thought, he might have used what he’d learned on the farm to go in at full force, to aim to wrap jaws only around his opponent’s head and rip it from their neck. But while the jaguar knew how he had killed those he felt threatened by on the farm, with their black blood and their still hearts, he couldn’t quite connect it to this fight. In this moment, all the jaguar knew was that those feet slamming into his chest hurt.

In this moment, all the jaguar knew was that he was angry.

He yowled, giving the vampire little time to recover before pouncing again, aiming to lift them and shake them around like a dog with an oversized chew toy.

—

The jaguar's exclamation pierced through the cacophony of cheers that surrounded the ring. Metzli had barely collected themself when it reached their ears, and their head shot up to find that the animal was already making its next move. It charged angrily, paws filled with excitement and eyes drowning with a deadly desire.

Without another moment of hesitation, Metzli prepared themself and crouched to wait for the right time to dodge. When the jaguar was a mere foot away, with its claws raised in attack, Metzli propelled themself over. They twisted their body and attempted to land behind the creature to grab its tail, but its prowess would prove far superior. Once again, they miscalculated, and the crowd cheered knowing that prey on its back meant blood would soon paint the canvas floor.

Their jaws found empty air again as their opponent leaped, and the frustration building in the jaguar’s chest began to boil over. He was more accustomed to fights that consisted of trading blows, not someone frequently dancing just out of his grasp. On the side of the ring, behind the safety of the metal fence, a man with a long stick that promised pain rattled the cage. Though the jaguar didn’t understand, some part deep within the beast where Felix’s thoughts resided knew what the man wanted.

The crowd cheered, but it was in anticipation rather than enjoyment. They were a brutal group; they always were. They didn’t want a dance, didn’t want light feet and near misses. This crowd, like every crowd that passed through the doors of the Grit Pit, wanted blood. They wanted violence, wanted to see something hurt. The jaguar was incapable of understanding this; so was Felix. It was one of very few thoughts that the two entities shared, though both came from different places. The jaguar was a creature of instinct, incapable of comprehending killing for the entertainment of someone else. And Felix… Felix was kind. They didn’t understand the crowd’s thought process because they couldn’t wrap their head around wanting to see someone hurt.

The shared lack of understanding meant nothing, though. The only thing that meant anything was that man outside the ring with the stick that would shock the jaguar if he didn’t do what was expected of him. The other fighter was on their back; the jaguar was on their feet. He leapt once more, aiming to land on top of his opponent.

—

Time seemed to slow down in the small windows of reprieve the vampire had. Growing smaller with a blink. The walls of the cage rattled with a kind of frustration that Metzli didn't quite understand. Their actions bordered on barbaric, increasing still as they lustfully watched the jaguar pounce.

White hot pain spread throughout Metzli's chest and they screamed out in pain, but their woes would go unheard. The audience cheered and slammed their hands joyfully against the cage. Frantically, Metzli shoved their hand into the Jaguar's mouth, forcing it to choke before it could take any sort of bite to the vampire's throat.

Despite the way its sharp teeth slid easily across their skin, Metzli managed to steel themself and kick the jaguar off of them. Again, the crowd cheered, and they struggled against their own thick, dead blood on their hand. Metzli eventually got themself to standing, only barely able to manage on shaky legs. Their arm was almost useless, but they were determined to get out alive.

His claws found traction on his opponent’s chest, and the jaguar didn’t understand the cheers of the audience, but he knew they were a good thing. Cheers meant that that man outside the ring wouldn’t use his cruel electricity against the jaguar for a few more precious moments, and that reprieve was enough to satisfy the cat. He slashed and clawed at the still chest before him, wondering if there was a heart within it that could be targeted.

But before he could attempt to satisfy this curiosity, a hand entered between his teeth and down his throat, choking him and forcing him back. The feeling was uncomfortable, and the feet that kicked him back and away from his prey hurt. The only way the jaguar knew how to respond to these feelings — the only way the jaguar knew how to respond to any feelings — was with rage.

His opponent was weaker now, less capable of bouncing around the ring. The jaguar used this to his advantage, giving them little reprieve before surging forward. This time, his jaws closed around their midsection, and he shook them around before tossing them against the side of the cage. He yowled as they hit the ground with a thud, and the cheering of the crowd grew louder as he circled them.

—

Metzli screamed again as the animal's powerful jaw clamped down on their torso, yanking them from their feet. They slid easily against the thick, clotted blood and the world blurred while they were jostled in every direction and thrown. Metzli groaned and shuffled backwards to the wall, not paying any mind to the animalistic cheering.

They shook away the daze in their mind and attempted to focus, taking note of their injuries. Their body couldn't take much more, even with their above average resilience, and Metzli could already feel their throat closing up with a thirst that threatened to send them in a small frenzy. They hoped they could use the hunger to their advantage, standing weakly. Slowly, Metzli's eyes pooled red and their fangs sharpened, head rising weakly to follow the jaguar as best they could. But it was no use. There were now two of them, and they were already struggling with one.

With a thick swallow, the vampire growled, strength renewed, and they charged toward the jaguar as fast as they could. Their body slammed against it and pushed them both into a wall, a last ditch effort in hopes of staying alive. Though Metzli wasn't sure if they would because the world went dark just as pain bloomed across their entire body.

His opponent was a resilient one; maybe some part of the jaguar respected them, as much as an animal was capable of respecting its prey. They got to their feet once more, even broken and bloodied, and charged. He wasn’t expecting it; perhaps that was why they were able to make contact. The jaguar had assumed, perhaps foolishly, that the fight was all but over. Instead, they found themself slammed against the wall.

Pain rose up and, with it, more anger. His opponent fell into a heap, and there was no heartbeat to indicate that they still lived. The rage needed an outlet more exciting than a still form. The crowd cheered, shouts for the jaguar to finish the fight. The Grit Pit didn’t always allow fights to end with the death of one of the fighters — it was difficult to replace some of them, after all — but the temporary competitor was expendable, and no one moved to save them from a permanent fate. The jaguar could have killed them; no one would have stopped it.

Instead, he let his anger get the best of him. His rage demanded blood sweeter than the black sludge in the veins of the still form on the ground, demanded more of a fight than he’d been given. He turned to the fence separating him from the crowd, zeroing in on the familiar man with the stick and launching himself forward.

Claws tried to tear through the barrier, and the man jumped back. He spoke words the jaguar didn’t understand in a tone harsh enough to cut through the excited screams of the crowd, and the stick found its way through the small holes in the fence and pressed against the jaguar’s chest. The jolt it sent through him fueled his rage, and he reared back to hit the barrier again, harder. Another jolt came, but the jaguar was not deterred.

The man yelled something into the crowd; a door opened into the ring. The jaguar turned as someone entered, rushing towards them just as something sharp pierced his thigh. The new figure in the ring lowered their arm, ducking back out and closing the door behind them as the jaguar’s movements turned sluggish. He felt as though his blood was thickening, making it more difficult to move. He stumbled, swaying back and forth as he turned back towards the fence, towards the man with the cruel stick. The man smiled at him, wriggling his fingers as the jaguar fell.

The world darkened, despite his attempts to remain awake. He let out a weakened yowl, desperate to cling to a consciousness already fading. He heard the door open again, but could not lift his head towards it; he had no concept of the tranquilizer running through his veins, but this did not lessen its effectiveness.

—

There wasn't much use for a downed fighter, much less one that wasn't on the roster. Although they put on a show–a mediocre one–it just wasn't in the Pit's best interest to keep Metzli in the building. The handlers grabbed them by their disheveled pant leg and dragged them across the ring, not paying any mind to how their head banged against each step along the way. They tossed the vampire out in the alleyway for them to wake up later or someone else to find. Either way, Metzli wasn't their problem anymore.

#wickedswriting #writings #bloody ink #c: felix #felix and metzli #total knockout #head trauma tw

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