Ruby

HellsCat Arena, Fight House Club, Toronto, Canada – 6:43 AM:

The shrill cry of a whistle pierced the air, cutting through the cloud of obnoxious noise that blanketed the dingy arena. My opponent burst forward the moment the sound came, rushing at me with speed that belied his large form. I ducked immediately, having watched enough of his fights to know what opening he would start with. It was always the same: the man would rush his opponent fast enough to catch them off guard and follow with a ferocious jab to the skull, an opener that occasionally wrapped up the fight immediately. He seemed to follow his pattern obsessively, though, never once deviating even when it became a known thing.

And for good reason, too, I thought as the man’s fist just barely caught the corner of my ear. The speed at which he approached made it hard to dodge, even when I knew what was coming. My ear stung but I stamped on the pain, rolling to the side a second before the man kicked out at me.

The man undeniably had weight and strength on his side – that much was obvious from appearances alone – and a healthy dose of speed to match, but I knew I had him beat there. And in speed lay my only chance at victory. I hit hard, but I knew my limits. I could not take a straight blow from the man and stay in the fight; I was dancing on a tightrope, where a single slip spelled defeat, but I wasn’t too worried. Being a 5’7, lithe-formed, 17-year-old in a field dominated by massive, overly muscled fighters taught me to dance well. I was younger than most, yes, but I had experience and instinct like the best of them.

I shot to my feet as I completed my roll, pouncing forward with a hard jab to the man’s ribs before backing off quickly, stepping back just enough for the man’s responding swing to fall short of me. The man stumbled to his right a few steps before catching himself again, one hand clutching his sore ribs, but I was on him immediately. Pressing my advantage, I closed in for another rapid-fire jab and hook combo, one connecting with his chest and the other with the side of his skull, before once again stepping off as he swung wide at my head. This time, however, I retreated fully, putting some space between us and resetting the tempo of the fight.

I could press again, I knew, but I had come to find opting for caution paid well in fights like these. More than once I’d pushed too aggressively and fallen to a lucky swing.

The man cleared his head quickly and focused himself back on me, honing in with the intensity of a lion. I gave a taunting grin in response, bringing the jeers and insults of the crowd to a new level. Rarely did I ever appreciate the abrasive and vulgar, not to mention highly intoxicated, crowd, but they certainly worked wonders when it came to angering my opponents, and their anger only played in my favor.

A smug smile played on my lips as I watched the man rush at me again, spurred on by the pressure of the crowd. Letting the crowd’s taunts influence the fight was amateurish, but I wasn’t complaining. I tried to enjoy most of my fights, but this one was special. This one I wanted to win, and I wanted to win quickly.

Liquid power thrummed in my veins at the thought, my smug smile turning vicious with excitement. As the man approached, I suddenly shot forward as well, closing the distance between us far quicker than he anticipated. Still, in a show of exceptional reflex, the man swung a hard hook at my head just in time, but unfortunately for him, I slipped under the heavy-handed blow in stride. Bringing my knee up as we met, I let the combined force of our clashing momentum drive my knee deep into his gut, forcefully collapsing his lungs and expelling his breath.

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I sealed the match with a ruthless uppercut, audibly shutting his open mouth and sending him reeling back, stumbling over his feet like a man drunk on his own pain.

The fight was all but over then, I knew. The man was in the palm of my hand, and it didn’t take long for me to decide how I wanted to end the fight. I could go the violent, barbaric route that the crowd loved more than anything, but the man and I had little animosity between us, so I saw no reason to – and I gave not a whit what the crowd thought of me anyway. So instead, I simply walked up to the dazed man and gave him a rough kick to the gut, sending him tripping over the thick rope that marked the boundary of the ring and over the edge of the raised platform. The crowd parted swiftly for him, letting the man slump heavily onto the dirt floor instead.

I couldn’t help but wince slightly at the sound of the man hitting his head against the floor, knowing from personal experience what kind of headache would welcome him when next he awoke. But I couldn’t go too easy on him, either; much as I didn’t care for the opinions of the bloodthirsty crowd, I didn’t want a riot on my hands.

In fact, kicking the man off the arena was quite a tame end to the fight, compared to what the crowd was used to, and the dirty looks the crowd gave me were testament to that. I silenced the particularly bold ones with a challenging glare, staring them down from atop my raised pulpit of dirt and blood. The men and women of the crowd were dangerous opponents only for the fact that they had nothing to lose – I wouldn’t so boldly pick a fight with them on the lawless streets just outside the club – but up on the arena, where the hired hands of the Fight House enforced some semblance of law, I’d gladly take them on. They had little in the way of training, and even less in the way of meat on their bones.

Once the discontented murmurs quieted down enough, and it became clear no one would rise from the crowd to challenge me, I gave the people a smug chuckle and leapt off the platform. The crowd parted quickly for me as well, and I ignored their stares as I made for the iron bar doors at the end of the room. Their resentment bothered me little; another pair of gladiators would appear within five minutes and they would all but forget about me. That’s what they were here to do, after all. Forget.

The thought lingered in my mind as I made my way through the club, souring my mood as I crossed the main dance floor that blared with techno music so loud my head hurt. The heady room was choked with the people’s desperation to drown their thoughts. It was infused into every inch of the gaudy building, from the too-bright lights to the too-loud music. Everything about the club was designed to stop all thought, and as I surveyed the inebriated people swaying mindlessly on the dance floor, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy spark within me.

I quickly shook myself and cleared my head, quickening my step to get out of the seductive building as soon as I could. I’d managed to resist the temptations of the streets for as long as I’d been on them, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t tempted. The idea of losing myself in the mass of people, of numbing the thoughts and memories in my head, called out to me with the sweet tongue of a siren, but I refused to buckle. I knew what all those people would look like in the morning; I’d seen their dead and hollow eyes more times than I could count, felt the pain that echoed in their empty husks. And I refused to let myself become like them, to fall for the glamor they so desperately chased.

And besides, I’d been taught better than that. I’d seen someone be better than that. And I wasn’t about to disappoint her – and her sacrifice – by living a life of numbness despite it all. I’d never be able to face her again if I did.

With a determined face, I burst through the heavy metal doors of the establishment and strode out into the brisk air of the early morning, resolved never to walk back into those doors. After all, I’d completed my business with the place, held up my end of the bargain. Now, all that was left was to make sure they held up theirs.