Glee woke drenched in sweat, shaking wildly. It must’ve been the middle of the night. They couldn’t remember having any dreams, but they were spooked as if they’d just had a nightmare.
They moved out of bed swiftly and into the kitchen, hunched near the trash can; perhaps they were sick?
Their shadow suddenly darkened to a pure black, a gradient appearing on its form, a dark red on the head slowly fading to the complete black, the eyes blood-red.
“Gods, P.E.R.C.E., I thought you were better than this. Running away with your tail between your legs like a chastised dog whenever I show up,” the shadow sighed, annoyed.
Glee stiffened. “Don’t call me that.”
“Oh, why’s that?” The shadow asked in a mocking tone. “Or is it because you associate the name with that lab? The place they made you… introduced you to little old me. Or, rather, you introduced yourself to me. It was so stupid, thinking you could’ve avoided me so easily.”
“I don’t know,” they muttered.
“Oh? Then perhaps you should be reminded, P.E.R.C.E., they created you for this circus and you’re just letting them use you. I’m disappointed… I thought you would fight.” The shadow sounded genuinely disappointed, though its tone had undertones of annoyance.
Glee nodded.
The shadow gave a heavy sigh and faded to its usual grayish hues, the glow of the eyes fading, and eventually the redness desaturating into the gray of a normal shadow.
Glee moved back to bed, unnerved. They eventually settled into a fitful sleep.
* * *
Rags woke up and got dressed. He wore a leather shirt and pants with arm guards and leg guards made from strong metal. He slung a bow over his back, the string stretching across a flexible but strong chestpiece. He put his twin knives into their sheaths, the curved blades giving a shing as they entered the metal covers. He slipped four small daggers into the belt. He clipped the rabbit’s foot on his belt and took a deep breath.
“Hey, Griff. Today’s the day. Do you want to watch or stay here?”
Griff woke up. “Hmm?”
“Today’s the day of the fight with her, remember?”
“Oh. Yeah. I’ll watch.” Griff pushed himself up.
“Don’t worry, Griff, I’ll get your rabbit’s foot back to you.” A lump formed in Rags’ throat as a horrible thought struck him: what if all that was left of Rags by the end of the day for Griff to remember him by was the griffin? That won’t happen, Rags promised himself.
“Ok.”
* * *
She must’ve been fifteen feet tall. The skin on her body was jet black, but on her face it was white as snow. Not an off-white, not tan. White. She was wearing a black mask over it, Rags could tell as he stood in her shadow, sweaty, shaky hands gripping the handles of his blades.
“We are gathered here today,” began the speech, “To watch a fight between two legends: Rags; fourteen, male.
“The second: The One of Many Names, Faceless, The Last, Ikina la Farla; two-thousand fifty-seven, female.” The announcer paused, allowing people to wave their betting slips in the air, a tradition.
Rags couldn’t shake the fact that the announcer had started the speech with “we are gathered here today.” It sounded like something someone at a funeral would say. He pressed his fingers hard into the handles of his twin blades to stop his hands from shaking, staring up at Ikina la Farla. He pressed his fist into the soft rabbit fur clipped onto his belt. I have to get it back to Griff. The announcer’s voice turned into a buzzing in Rags’ ears, the pit in his stomach going.
“Fight!” The shout from the announcer startled Rags and he bolted in between his opponents legs. He lept up and grabbed onto the tattered fabric, quickly climbing his way up to her head. He latched onto her greasy black hair and didn’t let go as she thrashed her head, enraged.
Riiip.
His grip was perfect, his hands locked into her hair despite the grease.
Her hair is tearing out.
I’m going to die.
In one mighty thrash, she managed to throw Rags from her head. He landed hard on the stone floor of the arena. Something in his body cracked. He groaned and picked up the blade he’d dropped. He held it with shaky hands, pointing it up towards her. Even he could see the blade quivering. Rags hated the idea of using his abilities to his advantage in a fight, but…
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Fine.
He whispered under his breath and suddenly jumped up. Time slowed around her as his blades slashed through the air, through her flesh, leaving dark marks that dripped sticky black blood. Like tar, he thought, before he landed, his left hand receiving the brunt of the fall.
The pain was instant. His palm seemed to splinter and send a shockwave up his forearm. He sucked in air through his teeth and felt a cold hand pin him down.
I never lose a fight. I’m dreaming; that has to be it, I can’t lose.
“Maybe,” came the whisper as she leaned down until her face was right beside his. “Maybe if you can’t wake up from the nightmare…” her white nails dug into his body; her hand was half as large as his entire form. “You aren’t asleep.”
Her thumb slid underneath her mask and lifted it ever-so-slightly, so only Rags could see her face.
He recoiled, pushing against the cold stone floor of the arena. Her mouth… he turned his gaze farther up, to her eyes, or where they should have been, and felt bile rise up in his throat. It wasn’t human, not even close. Crooked sharp teeth, hardly shaped like teeth, poked from bloody gums. Her teeth were shaped like large needles, like they had just been stabbed haphazardly into her mouth. Not all of them were even in her gums, he spotted something that must’ve been a molar sprouting from her forked tongue. It looked as if her eyes had been ripped out, replaced by the inky blackness of the eye socket, but the rim of it matched the bloody gums in her mouth. Teeth longer than that in the mouth stretched from the body to the top of the eye socket.
“Rags!” The shout, filled with the sound of tears, seemed to wake Rags up. He squirmed in his place as she moved the mask back in its place.
“Griff!” He yelled back, trying to get out of her grip.
“Oh, poor dear,” she purred. “Some children are simply born with tragedy in their blood.”
She was distracted as she turned to look at Griff. He grabbed his blade with his right arm and cut a finger clean off. She instinctively recoiled and cried out, clutching the stump of her finger and dropping Rags. Her scream was ragged, the sound terrifying.
“Run. Run, you clever boy.” The voice was full of malice, deadly.
Rags stumbled to his feet and ran, only to trip on a stone sticking out from the floor. He stared back at it uncomprehendingly—he didn’t remember that being there, and he remembered every detail of the Arena.
Rags looked up at her—he had to do something. His hand found one of his daggers. With no other idea of what he could do, he threw it. It flew through the air and lodged in her sternum.
She fell to the ground, her finger dripping tar-like blood to the ground as her hand moved to where the dagger stuck in her chest. Her head moved down, as if looking, shocked, at the dagger.
Rags took the opportunity and ran forward, leaping up as he reached her. He drove one of the twin swords into her shoulder with his right hand, the force of his blow knocking her onto her back.
She didn’t appear bothered, just… surprised. Curious, almost.
She reached a talon-like hand towards Rags and picked him up off her. He managed to grab onto his blade, but she reached up her second hand, sitting up now, and traced her a sharp claw-like nail down his injured arm; even the light contact left a deep red line cutting through his skin.
Rags squirmed out of her grip and landed. His blades dropped from his hands with a clatter. He crumpled to the stone floor with a sharp cry. He was given no time to nurse his injuries. She picked him up like a limp ragdoll, tossed him up, and batted him at the wall like a cat would a mouse. He hit the wall, the air rushing out of him as he fell to the floor. He pushed himself up, propping himself on his elbow as he tried to breathe again. She plucked him between her forefinger and thumb and held him up.
Rags could suddenly breathe, and strength returned to his body.
Perhaps the air higher up was clearer.
Maybe it was hearing Griff shout his name, voice breaking.
It could’ve been the adrenaline rush at the thought of being close to death.
Or maybe Rags just got so damn angry at the whole setup.
His skin took on the qualities of steel, gray and metallic. Rags swung his leg up, performing a flip as she held the tattered brown shirt on his back. He felt his foot connect with her index finger and heard a sharp snap. She dropped him out of surprise and he landed on his feet in a crouched position, quickly springing up to her face, managing to rip the mask off. He felt his fingers wrap around the teeth in her eye sockets and ripped one out.
She screamed, her cry full of rage and pain, and her hands moved to her face, throwing Rags off.
As he flew through the air, his skin took its normal pale blue. What? And then dread hit him, hard, in the gut. The announcer, he thought. They called her Ikina la Farla. Ikina la Farla.
Thief of power.
Rags outstretched his hands towards the floor on instinct. He realized his mistake a second too late, eyes widening just as his maimed hand made contact with the earth. Pain shot up his hand and forearm like fire and he fell to the ground. He quickly propped himself up on his right elbow, his left arm limp.
Rags pushed himself to his feet and managed to look at his left arm— it was soaked in blood, the skin torn.
Ikina la Farla’s skin turned shiny and gray. Rags experimentally aimed a swipe at her with his blade. It slipped off with the zing of metal on metal.
Rags cursed and kicked at the sand that coated the stone floor, frustrated.
“Look at you,” she whispered. “Still waiting for your happy ending.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Whatever you say.”
She lunged and caught him in her skinny hands and bony fingers. He didn’t resist as she lifted him into the air, her skin cold iron.
“Thanks,” he told her, and pushed out of her hands. He landed on her head and pulled out another tooth, this time from her mouth. It came away slick with blood and saliva, sticking to his hand.
“What are you!?” She screamed, a sound filled with anger, surprise, and something like curiosity. “A monster?”
The metal quality of her skin faltered, the dark iron turning to the black of her body. The blood from her wounds continued falling; more like the slow drip of slime than the waterfall of blood flowing from a knife wound. “A demon?!”
He raised the tooth he’d pulled from her mouth. “No. A weapon.”
Rags brought the tooth down.