I’ve gotten used to it. It ain’t easy, but I’ve gotten used to it.

I am in a brightly illuminated concrete bowl. Two openings on each side faced each other, sealed off by an iron gate, which us “scrappers” enter from. The concrete was the kind that used to be smooth and shiny but was now full of scuffs, chips, scratches, and blood stains. Sealing off the arena is a cage, made out of interlocking iron bars with enough space between them for comfortable viewing from above.

Seated around the arena are the degenerates that make the whole thing possible: the hosts and our audience. The audience were almost sweaty as me, fingers grabbing the cage spitting obscenities, exchanging bets, and high off of a mixture of alcohol and stimulants screaming their lungs out like they are the ones getting their asses beat in this place. The diverse smell of everyone is thick in my nose and the temperature is that of a sauna's. Our hosts were as mysterious as ever, all high and mighty as their silohettes viewed through tinted glass from the VIP box above the audience seating. I still don't know who they are or what their deal is.

It was like a shitty version of the roman colosseum.

They don’t give a damn about us though. They just want to see a good fight and make a little money off it. I don’t blame em. In fact, I was a big UFC fan myself and also a boxer for a while until ‘it’ happened. This is a little different though, there are no rounds, no fouls, no rules. The match goes until someone dies and there is no shortage of poor souls like me who wake up one day to find themselves collared up against their will, so fights happen frequently and business is booming. It was a full on dog fighting arena. Here, this jack and I were the dogs.

“Fight ladies”

“Come on then! I don’t got all night”

“I didn’t waste money just to watch a fucking staring contest! Fight!”

Obviously, I wasn’t listening to them. My only priority is my own survival and to ensure it, I need to get a full read  of my opponent. Going in right now would be idiotic. Unfortunately, I am an idiot considering what happened to me after I decided a brawl with an unassuming skinny dude who turned out to be PSI empathetic. That mistake almost costed me my life and it wasn't going to happen again.

Also fortunately, I think I have a good idea of what kind of scrapper this schmuck in front of me is after our last little bout, but not after he got a few good hits on me. He is a zombie, one of the types of scrappers I sometimes come across in this shit hole.

The only article of clothing he wore aside from the black metallic collar that all of us are required to wear was a ragged pair of black shorts that he didn’t seem to bother clean or replace between matches. His head is completely clean shaven with sunken cheeks and vacant eyes while his pale white body looked as if it hadn’t seen even seen a bowl of mush in a matter of days, which was most likely the case.

Its not uncommon for the weaker scrappers to lose hope under these circumstances and once that happens they usually turn to either suicide or spending their hard earned credits on drugs instead of food in order to escape from all of it. Zombies are of the latter type, their poison of choice being what we call “kick”, some sort of amphetamine that has been put up for sale at the exchange in our living quarters. None of us have ever heard of it until we arrived here. We think it came from some merchants off planet. From what I’ve seen, kick turns people Into shells of their former selves but makes em as aggressive as bulls and twice as tenacious once addicted, hence the name “zombie”. Although I hear the euphoria is even better than heroin.

The only reason he isn’t rushing me right now is because just a few seconds ago I had him on the ground in an arm bar. By now I have created some distance between us in order to come up with a plan to finish this. Pulling all the way on this fella’s arm must have refreshed him a little, because even though he looks like he wants to eat me alive right now he isn’t making any sudden movements.

His sense of pain is still there but dulled eh.

I’m jealous. Not like I’d ever become like him though…

I’m too strong for that.

Anyways it looks like this zombie is waiting for me to come to him so he can counter me with his remaining left arm. His right arm is loosely dangling by his side. If he was in perfect condition I would hesitate wrestling with him like I did a minute ago due to his strength and endurance being that of a crackheads’ but now that all the heavy lifting has been done, well, it would be best not to make him wait.

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After slowing circling to his right for a little bit with my arms up guarding my head I quickly break my rhythm and immediately rush him while lowering my centre of gravity so that I am parallel to his waist. He lashes out with a wild punch lacking neither speed or aggression with his good arm which glides harmlessly passed my head as I drive my shoulder into his stomach and hug his waist in a solid tackle.

The crowd roars as I begin to mount him trying to get my knee upon his good arm which I am restraining with my elbow but as I attempt to do so he headbutts me as punishment as soon as I get close enough to smell his rancid breath after which he throws me off top of him.

For a moment, all I can see is black. Next thing I know I’m on the ground beside the zombie.

Shit, that one rung me good, this is getting dangerous. As I attempt to pull myself off the ground the zombie recovers before me and kicks my chest as I am trying to get up.

All I can feel is pain.

Thats a few broken ribs by my reckoning.

Even though I landed on the opposite side of the injury I still feel immense pulsating pain throughout my body but it has the side effect of clearing my head.

Pain is pain, I reminded myself. Right now, that’s only a distraction. Focus. Survival is the only thing that matters. The only way to survive is to escape. The most immediate obstacle is that man.

My vision narrows and the roars of the crowd grows muffled as I get up before he can kick me again.

Thankfully, his last blow caused me to fly across the arena and put enough distance between us that I can breath.

I am sharply aware of my broken ribs, the blood dripping from my nose, the sweat coating my body, my rapid breathing and the man standing in front of me, grinning confidently.

I underestimated him, he’s more sane than I figured.

I lift my arms to protect my head once again, leaving enough room in my line of sight for my opponent to be visible. I’m not gonna be able get up next time he lands a head shot. I widen my stance and put a slight bend in my knees so I can move any direction at a moments notice  while maintaining my centre of gravity as I cautiously close the distance between us. Facing the man is the left side of my body whose ribs are still intact.

It’s life or death now. Well… when has it not been.

The only thing that exists is me and my opponent.

Nothing matters but the fight in front of me.

I relax the tension in my body as I maintain my stance and start cautiously closing the distance between me and the man. Still grinning as I move in closer my opponent suddenly makes a beeline towards me aiming to get me on the ground, emulating my previous tackle. Cheeky bastard. It only takes a second for the distance to be closed as I rotate out the range of his tackle, using the momentum of the rotation generated by my hips and torso my left elbow whips directly into his temple.

He falls, tumbling across the concrete with the momentum of his charge for a few feet before coming to a stop. And then he… starts to push himself back up.

How the hell is he still conscious? He took a clean counter.

The tenacity of these zombies never ceases to surprise me

Before he can fully recover I dash towards him and kick him in the face with my boot, whipping his head upwards as he tumbles back to the ground. Holding back the urge to vomit, I stomp three times on the back of his neck with the full weight of my body, trying to ignore the sound and sensation of his skull and spine crunching.

I stare at his bloody figure half expecting him to start getting back up but there is no more movement save for a few twitches from his hands and feet.

It was him or me.

The first few times, I only felt disgusted with myself. Then a few times after that, I felt a mixture of relieved and proud. But now, I just feel empty.

The crowd was in a frenzy but I wasn’t in the mood for bravado so I just walk back through the entrance I came through as the iron gate slowly raised.

I'm tired.

[Level 4 obtained]

[Strength increased by 1]

[Agility increased by 1]

[Constitution increased by 1]

[Will increased by 1]

[Skill - Dodge increased by 1]

[Skill - Pain Tolerance increased by 1]

[Skill - Battle Focus increased by 1]

[Skill - Tackle level increased by 1]

It ain’t easy, but I’ve gotten used to it.