#this au kind of verges into dead dove territory

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 02: nowhere to run

Cornered + Caged + Confrontation

2523 Words; Ouroboros AU

TW for death, exploitation, bloodsport, panic attacks, derealization, vomiting

AO3 ver

The locker room was a lot smaller than Dion expected. Just a single bench in the center, with maybe ten small lockers in two rows against the wall.

It was, as everything in Ouroboros was proving to be, ridiculously clean; the scent of sweat, faintly baked into the room, was the only indication that it had been used before.

The Wolf behind Dion shoved him forwards, grunting, “Mask and outfit are in the third locker. Go get changed.”

Dion trudged over to the locker in question. It was unlocked.

A red and gold mask stared back at him when he opened the door, fake fangs glinting in the light. A similarly-colored outfit sat at the bottom of the locker, folded neatly.

Dion grabbed the clothes and boots, letting the mask sit there.

There was a small washroom on the other side of the locker room. There wasn’t a door, but it offered just enough privacy against the Wolf’s watching gaze.

Dion would take what he could get. It was all he really could do, in Ouroboros.

Shame coiled in his chest as he changed. If he hadn’t fucked up in the first place, if he’d never gotten stuck here—

It would be fine, he told himself. He’d keep his head down, stay alive, and find a way to escape. It’d be fine. It’d be fine.

That he was being put into the Death Pit tonight put a damper on his self-reassurances, but Dion was the master of packing away his fears and anxieties. He was the master of shoving unpleasant truths into a quiet little box in the corner of his mind. He’d done it with the knowledge that Frazie and Raz were psychic for years.

That didn’t make the truth of the matter any less true, though. And the truth of the matter was that Dion was being thrown straight into the deep end tonight.

Dion put the new outfit on. The shirt was black, form fitting, sleeves ending shortly past his elbows. 037 was embroidered in red thread on the back, but the numbers were immediately covered by the red and gold vest.

The vest almost reminded him of his old jacket, snug around his chest and flared at the collar. Dion wondered if that was intentional.

The boots went higher than he was used to, just short of his knees. Dion frowned as he laced them up—they weren’t uncomfortable, but that didn’t make it feel any less weird.

Dion turned back towards the locker.

The mask grinned back at him, taunting.

If there was one rule in Ouroboros, it was thus: every worker, every fighter, every person who lived under Creed’s rule wore a mask. From the workers who kept everything clean and running to the Wolves who enforced Creed’s rules to the fighters in the rings to the Owl at Creed’s side—if they worked in Ouroboros, they wore a mask.

Dion idly wondered who’d worn this mask before him. If they’d died in the Death Pit. He traced the gold outlining the lion’s features. The paint was chipped in some of the corners, the red flaked away to reveal gray material underneath.

Dion put the mask on, tying the cord tight.

It felt like tying his own noose.

+=+=+=+=+

Ouroboros hosted a number of different caged fighting arenas. Ouroboros had a wide range of fighters, of various animal themings. Ouroboros attracted a large audience, all paying to see people in masks beat the shit out of each other.

One such arena was known as the Death Pit. It was less of a specific arena and more like a special event; once every other week, a normal arena was redecorated, the price was doubled, and the rules changed to a single, unbreakable rule:

Nobody Leaves Until Somebody Dies.

That Creed had the bodies to sustain this spoke to just how powerful he was, how powerful Ouroboros was—it was like a machine, ever consuming more and more as it made money out of bodies and blood and violence.

Dion was shoved into the ring with no ceremony, door clanging shut behind him as he stumbled forwards.

The cage stretched up, the bars forming a ceiling high above Dion’s head. They were too close for him to slip through, but not so tight that he couldn’t climb them.

Not that climbing would get him anywhere.

Around and above him, the audience cheered as an announcer reiterated the single rule. The sound was deafening.

Across the ring, the bars opened to allow Dion’s opponent in. Small, lithe, in a blue outfit with gold trim.

The announcer introduced them as The Beetle, winner of three Death Pits in a row.

Dion was introduced as The Lion. No achievements of his were mentioned—he didn’t have any.

The bell blared.

The Beetle wasted no time in crossing the ring, darting around the bits of scrap and broken parts that acted as both obstacles and cover.

Dion froze.

What was he even supposed to do here? He was a performer, not a gladiator!

Mom and Dad had taught him basic self defense, when he was younger. He had that, at least.

But self-defense would only help him so much here.

The Beetle struck, snapping Dion from his thoughts. Immediately, he moved, flipping up onto the nearest hunk of wooden scrap, balancing on it like a balance beam.

It didn’t give him that much height on his opponent, who stood just a bit taller than the scrap itself, but it was something.

The Beetle wasted no time in shoving at the wood, their size belying their strength.

The scrap wobbled. Dion leapt to the nearest bit of wooden scrap, cartwheeling across it to leap onto the next.

The audience’ screams and jeers faded into background noise. Dion’s chest pounded with adrenaline as he led his opponent around the arena, leaping from wooden scrap to wooden scrap—he wasn’t sure he trusted the sharp edges of the metal scrap.

The Beetle slammed their shoulder against the wood Dion was standing on. He looked to his next jump—

There was nowhere to jump to.

Shit shit shit—

The Beetle swiped at Dion’s boots with their knife, forcing Dion to jump. They slammed their shoulder against the wood again, making the whole thing wobble when Dion landed.

Dion landed, wrongfooted, and fell from the scrap to the ground. He rolled with the impact, springing back to his feet as the Beetle swung.

Pain blossomed through Dion’s shoulder. He stumbled backwards, just barely avoiding another hit.

The Beetle kept up their assault, switching between their fist and their knife, forcing Dion further and further back. He backflipped, hoping to put some distance between himself and them—

He landed back on his feet seconds before The Beetle struck, their fist wrapped around the handle of the knife.

Dion fell to the ground, dirt scraping against his palms. He spat blood.

The Beetle loomed over him. Dion scrambled backwards, pushing himself up into a run.

His heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline singing in his veins.

Maybe he should just stop running. The Beetle had a lot of experience on him—how could he hope to win, here?

But Dion wasn’t—he wasn’t the only Aquato in Ouroboros. Mirtala—

She was his baby sister. That made her his responsibility while Mom and Dad were out of reach.

He had to survive. He had to.

But to do so would mean—

Dion shoved that thought down, backflipping away from The Beetle. It was hard enough just staying alive, right now. So he’d just. Focus on that.

The cage bars cast shadows across them both.

The crowd screamed and chanted for blood.

The Beetle lunged, grabbing Dion’s shoulder and slamming him to the ground. They landed on top of him with a grunt, and raised their knife—

Dion punched their shoulder as hard as he could. His knuckles stung.

The Beetle brought their knife down. Dion caught their wrist, straining to keep the blade away from his neck.

He kicked, trying to shove them off. His heart threatened to pound a hole straight through his chest. Blood rushed through his ears, muffling the crowd until the world was reduced to just The Beetle and Dion.

He couldn’t read their expression through their mask.

The Beetle grunted with the effort, their knife getting closer and closer with every second.

Dion shoved their wrists to the side as hard as he could, twisting his legs up in theirs and rolling.

The moment The Beetle was under him, Dion pushed himself up and ran.

The Beetle wasted no time in getting up and chasing after him.

It wasn’t long until Dion’s back was against the bars, his opponent slowly advancing towards him.

Dion was trapped. The bars dug into his back, his opponent’s knife glinting in front of him.

He could try dashing out to the side, but The Beetle was fast. There was nothing stopping them from backing Dion up against the bars again.

Which left only one way to go.

Dion gripped the bars behind him. The gaps were just large enough to fit his hands into. To fit the toe of his boots into.

The Beetle lunged.

Dion climbed, scrambling up the bars like his life depended on it.

Probably because it did.

The Beetle backed up, their head tilting up, up, up, tracking Dion’s ascent.

The crowd roared anger and disappointment, harsh and discordant. They wanted blood! They wanted struggle! They wanted violence! Not some newbie climbing up the bars where his opponent couldn’t reach!

It was a stalemate. Dion could climb as high as he liked, but—

Nobody Leaves Until Somebody Dies.

Dion hit where the bars stopped going up and started curling across. He scrambled out towards the center, high above the ground below.

The crowd continued to jeer. Dion continued to spider-scramble across the bars, not sure where he meant to go. He was moving for the sake of it, treating the cage ceiling like a giant jungle gym just because he could. His whole body ached with the effort of it. It was a much better ache than what The Beetle inflicted.

He reached for the next bar—

Dion fell.

Panic blanked his mind. Years of acrobatic training moved his body, limbs bending as he tucked his chin into his chest. Protect the head and neck, keep his body loose—

Dion landed with a sickening crunch.

He stilled, waiting for retaliation. This was it, wasn’t it?

The crowd hushed, as though everyone else was straining to make out what was happening.

Slowly, Dion uncurled, standing up.

The ground beneath him was awfully unsteady, almost like—

Dion stumbled backwards, the dirt steady under his boots.

The crowd was screaming, cheering, roaring in excitement, like this—like this was just some show, to them, like Dion wasn’t standing there with someone else’s blood on his boots, a body lying right in front of him. Like he wasn’t trembling, tears threatening to spill under the mask.

The crowd jeered.

Dion could barely hear it over the rush of blood in his ears. The world around him faded—this wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real.

He couldn’t breathe. Everything—the dissonance was suffocating, pushing in from all sides and holding his lungs in a vice grip.

His skin crawled. Hands grabbed at his shoulders, slowly dragging him from the arena. Dion barely registered the pressure, barely registered the soles of his boots scraping against the dirt.

The announcer was saying something. Dion couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

Whoever was dragging him grunted something. Dion barely heard it.

He’d—

The crowd—

The body—

Oh god—

Dion had no idea how long he was dragged along. Had no idea when his legs started to work, stumbling haphazardly in the general direction of… wherever they were going.

He struggled to breath, his throat burning. His hands were shaking.

The Wolf shoved him into the locker room, hand against his back guiding him towards the washroom.

Dion stumbled forwards, hands fumbling with the cord of his mask. At his third failed attempt, someone grabbed his shoulder and untied it for him.

They let go. Dion fell onto his knees, suddenly boneless.

There was a toilet in front of him.

Dion gripped the edges of the bowl harshly, leaned over, and heaved.

It burned coming out, vile taste stinging his tongue and leaving his teeth feeling sticky. His shoulders shook, his whole body spasming, bile forcing its way up his throat and out his mouth.

The taste burned his throat.

Dion continued hacking, snot and tears making his face sticky. Distantly, he remembered to be glad that his hair was already tied back.

He’d just—

Oh god.

The image of their corpse was burned into his brain, their face in the dirt and their neck bent in a way that necks should not bend. Everytime Dion blinked, he saw it.

He heaved again. There was nothing left to expel but leftover bile. His body continued hacking up nothing anyway.

+=+=+=+=+

Dion had been given access to a shower, to clean off the sweat and dirt from the fight.

He still felt sticky, afterwards, like something awful was clinging to him, something warm and slimy that he couldn’t scrub away no matter how hard he tried.

He changed back into the day clothes Creed had provided. His mask has been returned to the locker with the rest of the outfit, the door closed.

Dion could still feel it staring at him.

+=+=+=+=+

The Wolf gripping his arm didn’t lead Dion back to his and Mirtala’s room—if it could really be called a room, and not a cell, or a closet. Instead, he was brought to a new door, another Wolf standing at attention next to it.

Dion didn’t think the grip on his arm was really necessary. He wasn’t going to run.

The door was unlocked. The Wolf pushed it open.

Oh.

It was a little bigger than their first room, newly furnished with two bedrolls and their shared footlocker. Mirtala was sitting on one of the bedrolls, clasping a doll that someone must have given her.

Dion was shoved into the room.

The door shut behind him with a click.

Mirtala stared at Dion with wide eyes.

Bile rose in his throat all over again, burning the back of his mouth.

He forced himself to swallow it.

Dion was responsible for Mirtala, for her wellbeing. He was supposed to keep her safe—at least, as safe as a little girl could be in Ouroboros. He couldn’t do that if he was dead.

So Dion had lived. He’d gone into the Death Pit, and he’d lived to keep protecting his sister—

It still felt so vile.

He moved to sit on the other bedroll, removing his hair tie on muscle memory.

“Hey.” He croaked out.

Mirtala threw herself against his chest, clutching at his shirt. “You made it back.” She whispered, burying her face against his chest.

Dion’s hands trembled. The arena, the audience, the body—

It was too much, all at once.He wrapped his arms around Mirtala out of habit, curled his body around hers, and cried.