I wrote and posted this on FF a couple weeks ago for my Courier Charlie and I think you might like it.
It's been hours, long enough that she's no longer sure if she's fought in this pit before, but then there's always the chance that this is a brand new one. Walls of dirt and stone, busted rebar and concrete, badly welded scraps made out of who the hell knows what; they're all the same in the end until a rival family or what passes for the law busts it up and breaks it down. She doesn't favour a side, just takes what she wants from whoever will set it up. An opponent, screams in the air, blood on the sand, and a purse full of caps at the end of the day. Same dirty little fucking dance.
She flicks her duster out and spits, waiting for the bell. "New Reno is a shithole."
Her final guest of the night grins from across the ring at her, all scarred muscle and dug-in smoky blue tattoos leaning against a sledge that weighs at least twenty pounds if it's an ounce. "I hear you keep saying that."
"Reckon it keeps being true."
"Then why the fuck don't you leave?"
"And give up your fine company?"
Both of them raise their voices as the announcer starts his patter to the crowd, outlining the skills of both, their histories of wins, or sometimes just total bullshit he pulls from his ass, all exaggerated to make the bets fly even faster. Same unending prattle.
'In this corner, weighing in at a long 165 pounds-'
"Last chance to give up before I kill you."
'Your darling of the desert, your queen of the blades-'
"I could say the same."
'The one, the only Duster!'
"Duster? That's supposed to scare me?"
Duster flicks out her leathery namesake again, giving the sheaths at her hips a flash of daylight. "Don't care what it does for you. Crowd give it to me because it makes it easier for the betting."
'And in this corner, at a whip-whopping 278 pounds-'
"Makes it easier to identify the paste I'll turn you into."
'Your Beast from the East-'
"Ah heck Jules, do I really need to know who the fuck he is? Not like I can keep track any more." She slaps a shit-eating grin on her face and Jules laughs from his perch high above, gold-capped teeth shining out of his dark wizened face, and everyone laughs with him, all except for the lunk with the sledge. it doesn't matter. The bell rings and then they're at it. Same shit, different day.
He's faster than she thought he would be, faster than he has a right to be, and Duster knows there has to be some sort of chemical edge at work. All it does is make the fire in her belly burn higher, and she starts laughing as she dances around, ducking and bobbing as the sledge comes within an inch of tearing her hat off with her head still in it. Faster, but there's no flair, no fight, no skill.
The sound of the crowd rises around her with each bit of blood that falls from the little nicks she's leaving in him, a flow that matches the sound of her own in her ears. Why in all the stars and sky they'd match her up with such an ox for her last go around the ring for the night she has no idea. Duster even goes so far as to bash his teeth in with the hilt of one of her knives, a risky, stupid move with his kind of reach, just to see if it would mean a better fight, a better thrill, the only kind of high she wants. She doesn't get it.
She's moving in for the killing blow, bored and ready to make him smile from ear to ear under the chin when something jumps up from nowhere and bites her.
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timeasmymeasure
Rosolare la Donna 1/2
Date: 2012-01-01 03:46 am (UTC)It's been hours, long enough that she's no longer sure if she's fought in this pit before, but then there's always the chance that this is a brand new one. Walls of dirt and stone, busted rebar and concrete, badly welded scraps made out of who the hell knows what; they're all the same in the end until a rival family or what passes for the law busts it up and breaks it down. She doesn't favour a side, just takes what she wants from whoever will set it up. An opponent, screams in the air, blood on the sand, and a purse full of caps at the end of the day. Same dirty little fucking dance.
She flicks her duster out and spits, waiting for the bell. "New Reno is a shithole."
Her final guest of the night grins from across the ring at her, all scarred muscle and dug-in smoky blue tattoos leaning against a sledge that weighs at least twenty pounds if it's an ounce. "I hear you keep saying that."
"Reckon it keeps being true."
"Then why the fuck don't you leave?"
"And give up your fine company?"
Both of them raise their voices as the announcer starts his patter to the crowd, outlining the skills of both, their histories of wins, or sometimes just total bullshit he pulls from his ass, all exaggerated to make the bets fly even faster. Same unending prattle.
'In this corner, weighing in at a long 165 pounds-'
"Last chance to give up before I kill you."
'Your darling of the desert, your queen of the blades-'
"I could say the same."
'The one, the only Duster!'
"Duster? That's supposed to scare me?"
Duster flicks out her leathery namesake again, giving the sheaths at her hips a flash of daylight. "Don't care what it does for you. Crowd give it to me because it makes it easier for the betting."
'And in this corner, at a whip-whopping 278 pounds-'
"Makes it easier to identify the paste I'll turn you into."
'Your Beast from the East-'
"Ah heck Jules, do I really need to know who the fuck he is? Not like I can keep track any more." She slaps a shit-eating grin on her face and Jules laughs from his perch high above, gold-capped teeth shining out of his dark wizened face, and everyone laughs with him, all except for the lunk with the sledge. it doesn't matter. The bell rings and then they're at it. Same shit, different day.
He's faster than she thought he would be, faster than he has a right to be, and Duster knows there has to be some sort of chemical edge at work. All it does is make the fire in her belly burn higher, and she starts laughing as she dances around, ducking and bobbing as the sledge comes within an inch of tearing her hat off with her head still in it. Faster, but there's no flair, no fight, no skill.
The sound of the crowd rises around her with each bit of blood that falls from the little nicks she's leaving in him, a flow that matches the sound of her own in her ears. Why in all the stars and sky they'd match her up with such an ox for her last go around the ring for the night she has no idea. Duster even goes so far as to bash his teeth in with the hilt of one of her knives, a risky, stupid move with his kind of reach, just to see if it would mean a better fight, a better thrill, the only kind of high she wants. She doesn't get it.
She's moving in for the killing blow, bored and ready to make him smile from ear to ear under the chin when something jumps up from nowhere and bites her.