With each step Dirk took deeper into the bowels of the place, the jovial laughs behind him became more and more distant, dampened by the thick concrete walls. The Basement wasn’t especially large, though, as one could assume. It took merely a few turns and a bit of walking for the noise to die out almost completely and be replaced by grave, eerie silence.
Being built inside an old nuclear fallout shelter, the Basement’s walls had very specific sound propagation and dampening qualities, fit for more “unsavory” practices than mere gambling. Ones which demanded at least a little bit of secrecy.
Byron, as the sole owner of the place, got it as a part of a package deal when the previous owner bestowed the bar above to him in his final will. The word was that the man built the bunker himself in secret, having lived in the era of nuclear warfare, but Byron neither confirmed nor denied such gossip.
After a bit of walking across dirty, unfurnished corridors that reeked of blood and vomit, Dirk reached a large chamber. One reserved for very specific kinds of competitions.
- Jason is gonna join us shortly. - he spoke to the shirtless man standing in the middle.
- Good, I need to let out some steam. - Morozov huffed, wrapping bandages on his hands.
The whole room was supported by four large, reinforced pillars, among which resided a central square area of around 12 by 12 meters. It was fenced off with crudely welded rebar and corrugated steel.
It was a fighting arena filled with sand tinted red with old blood. This was the true gambling table in which Misha “Red Mill” Morozov reigned supreme.
The rest of the room was occupied by old dilapidated couches, sturdy boxes and foldable chairs acting as makeshift spectator stands. The only other thing of real note was a large stainless steel wardrobe in the back, closed shut with a padlock.
One would normally ponder what was inside, if not for the giant red cross on the front. It was a medical cabinet, complete with an old and worn looking folded stretcher by its side, atop which hung a cracked standard issue Peacekeeper helmet. A giant “LOSER” spray-painted onto its forehead in vibrant red.
A tasteless joke truly befitting the king of this ring.
Dirk jumped inside the ring, managing to catch a few glimpses of broken teeth and human nails within the bloodied sand.
- Whoa, you also want to tussle? - the Ruskie smiled, tying the last knot on his bandaged hands.
- Sure, going to my job interview with a broken nose and missing teeth would surely increase my appeal. - the veteran said jokingly, walking up to the other man.
- A job interview? For what?
- Oh right, I didn’t really get to tell you. I got signed up for a mercenary gig. Escorting a convoy belonging to “Ouroboros”. - Dirk nonchalantly spilled the beans.
- Suka blyat. - the gamblers eyes lit up. - How much are they forking?
While waiting for Jason to get to the arena, the god of war decided to explain the whole situation to his good drinking buddy. The conversation went eerily similar to the way his younger brother laid it before him days ago. Once they finished, the Russian leaned against the corrugated steel and started thinking.
- That’s a payout of a lifetime. - he mused, chin caught between his thumb and index finger.
- Right? Way to potentially turn more than a single life around. - Dirk wanted to say something more, but his eyes caught a glimpse of a familiar figure. - You made it! Didn’t even take you that long for your first time.
- Bite me, what kind of maze is this place? - Jason exclaimed, not as much tired as exasperated.
He stopped mid-step, meeting eyes with Misha. A grave silence befell the room until the Russian broke it with a smile.
- Are you getting ready or do you need your papa to hold your hand? - The Ruskie whispered it, just to increase the snide.
Jason’s irises shrunk to the size of pinheads.
He ostentatiously threw his overcoat into the air, before getting into the ring in strides. Barely perceptible veins of gold shone through his skin, but he didn’t care at the moment.
From up close he easily dwarfed Misha, yet even looking up to meet Jason’s gaze, “Red Mill” couldn’t stop smiling.
- Gonna keep the–
Before he even finished his remark, Jason flexed every single muscle on his body that he could and with a loud tear, the black shirt the young adult was wearing exploded into shreds. Dirk left the arena, getting away from the splash zone as the shreds of cloth rained across the sandpit.
- For the record. - Jason finally spoke, his unnaturally large musculature shaking ever so slightly. - I dislike you, but what I am about to do to you isn’t personal.
The golden irises of his eyes, now shining with disdain, gave weight to those words, yet the Russian only yawned.
- Are you here to fight, boy? Or are you trying to woo me? - with that, he took a deep breath.
Before Jason arrived, Dirk politely asked Misha to rile the boy up and set him straight. So with that in mind, Morozov decided to be methodical about the whole process.
“Step one” - the Russian counted in his head.
Then spat in Jason’s face.
A wild swing cut through the air, sending waves across the room, tearing through space in a fraction of a second. The abruptness and force within made it seem as if Jason just performed a quick draw like cowboys of old did with their revolvers, but much, much faster. Despite that, waves of pressure at the tips of his knuckles indicated that it was a miss. The Ruskie already moved.
Then something hit Jason, toppling him down to the ground. An unseen force struck the giant behind the knee, bending his leg against his will. Startled, he quickly turned around to see where Morozov was, but instead saw nothing.
- That’s what swinging blindly gets ya. - his opponent said from behind.
The quickness with which Jason rose with arms swinging towards the source of the sound could only be called super-human, yet despite that he only managed to catch a glimpse of Misha just in time for the latter to throw a fistful of sand into his face.
As the younger of them coiled back, coughing up the sand that got into his airways, Dirk could only sigh from the sidelines.
“I know I asked for it, but holy shit is it painful to watch someone having to fight Morozov” - the veteran thought, following the Russian with his gaze as he casually strolled around the arena.
He circled around the young Chrysos, mocking him with how much time he was giving him to recover.
When comparing their physiques, one could easily spot how Misha Morozov was several weight classes below Jason, with his body looking drier than the sand in which he stepped.
He was shorter, smaller, thinner. In every possible category the Russian was inferior to the giant, but to put it mildly, he was the one bullying the giant.
In spite of that…
- Got ya. - Jason uttered, throwing out a sweeping kick in an attempt to ground his opponent.
A giant cloud of dust got kicked up by this maneuver.
Compared to the last wild attack, this one was calm and calculated, thrown out quickly and without needless flair.
And yet it still didn’t hit.
The Russian, as if seeing the future, simply jumped over the incoming sweep and rocked the opponent's world with a spinning kick to the head. With his noggin swinging backwards, propelled by the enormous force, the rest of Jason’s body followed, welcoming dozens of calcium dregs into his bare back.
- Malchik, I’m falling asleep here. Do I have to ask your pa to stand in for you?
Misha kept pressing all the right buttons to piss the young man off, to Dirk’s visible chagrin. Still, Jason needed that, or rather Fleece did.
As if being summoned, Fleece went into overdrive. The entirety of Jason’s body suddenly lit up, every muscle group becoming highlighted with golden strands. The heels of his boots dug into the ground with overwhelming force and by defying every law of physics known to man, allowed him to lift his entire body off the floor, back into an upright stance in one swift motion.
He somehow got taller and larger, glowing like a Christmas tree. Without any witty quips or taunts, Jason leaped forwards, now seeming more like a wild beast than a man.
Despite that, Morozov didn’t even flinch.
He only waited a spell before grabbing the incoming mountain of flesh and throwing him over the shoulder to the hard ground once more.
- That’s bringing back memories, you know? - he whispered with deep melancholy in his words. - I don’t have a boatload of guns on me this time around, though.
- S-sorry. - Jason uttered through gritted teeth, ashamed of his bestial outburst.
Jason swiped again from the ground with a clear disadvantage, but as expected it did very little. His opponent didn’t even have to try dodging that one, simply stepping back out of range, but Jason recovered in a blink and kept pressing the assault.
“That should suffice for the first step” - the king of the ring thought, while effortlessly walking backwards and weaving just at the tip of his opponent’s range. - “Now unto the second.”
The Russian disappeared in a blur, appearing directly in front of his opponent's face. He swung his head back and slammed it into the young Chrysos’ nose, spaying blood everywhere.
“Knocking him down a peg” - the melancholy was gone from his face, as if it was all a summer dream.
Instead, Morozov smiled from ear to ear. He hunched down with his guard up and rushed in,
ready to remind the single witness to this one-sided wallop where his moniker stemmed from.
- There he goes. - Dirk muttered, opting to look anywhere else but at what was about to take place.
Slaughter, to put it lightly.
Hit after hit, Morozov smashed Jason’s roided-up body like an oversized punching bag. First came the left swing, then a right and a straight. Not a single action that a human fist could perform during a fight was off the table.
The opponent started blocking low? Misha poked his eyes with his fingers.
He brought his hands up to the face? The Russian answered with a quick one-two to the liver and the solar plexus.
Tried countering with a hook? Duck low and spring back up, using momentum to nail him in the chin with a compact uppercut.
That was exactly why “Red Mill” had to bandage his fists before every fight. Because the speed at which he was tearing the skin off his knuckles and fingers was insane. He tore his hands to shreds almost as quickly as he did his opponents, as if pain itself did not exist.
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Once Jason’s head jumped up from the upper, the Russian grabbed his nose with the other hand and pulled him straight down into a flying knee.
A burst of laughter suddenly erupted, filling the room.
It wasn’t Dirk, and it couldn’t have been Jason, who was having his shit pushed in at an insane pace.
It was “Red Mill” himself, milling through another unfortunate opponent, leaving behind only red-golden stains.
But Misha wasn’t laughing at Jason. There was no malice in his voice. He simply enjoyed himself like a child each time a good tussle knocked on the metaphorical door of his schedule.
- And one, and two, and- whoops, wrong side! - Morozov started talking in his native tongue between bouts of laughter. Completely getting lost in the sauce. - You gotta be quicker than that! Where’re you even looking dumbass?
That was why his body seemed so gaunt. It was the Russian’s' conscious choice to mold his body into a lithe and nimble machine capable of supporting the fighting style that gave him so much joy. As little fat as possible, all muscles and no water weight. Of course, this type of physique had its drawbacks too. He was more susceptible to cuts and couldn’t handle the cold that well, which ran against the image of a stereotypical Russian most people had in their minds.
But he couldn’t care less. It was his body, his rules.
Jason, or Fleece, depending on how one approached the topic, finally got fed up with how one-sided the fight was and ran forward, forsaking all defense in a mad attempt to push the opponent away.
- Too slow.
Misha spun around and hit the giant in the side of his head with a Brazilian kick. Jason’s world slid to the side, and he fell into the sand again.
In the meantime, Morozov, red from exertion and fuming like a coal-engine, just jumped around like an athlete loosening his muscles before competition.
- Want me to keep going? I can do this all day. - he spoke out into the ether, looking at the ceiling.
- Until Fleece is satisfied. - Dirk responded, knowing that the question was aimed at him.
He only just returned after rummaging through Jason's gym bag, left at the entrance to the pit-hall. This blatant breach of privacy was committed so that Dirk could light a cigarette. The veteran felt that he would need that to make it through this mess. So much for not returning to bad habits.
From up close it might not have looked so rough to the Russian who was high on adrenaline, but his hands were soaked in blood, with it dripping down into the sand.
Even if Jason could take it, and anything a thousand times worse, looking at something like this being done to someone you cared for so one-sidedly, Dirk wasn’t having the easiest time coping with it, but it was necessary.
- Oh, come on. - Misha hollered with mock disappointment, stopping his little hops for a second and leaning forwards, hands on his knees. - This can’t be all you have, right? - he asked, looking as Jason fumbled on the ground, unable to pick himself up, his sense of balance thrown completely out of whack. - I know you have more. I’ve seen it. - There was a glint of madness as he half-whispered that last part. Something dark stirred inside the Russian’s mind, only barely drowned out by the rush he got from the fight.
- Give him a breather. - Dirk commanded, letting his concern bleed through his tough act, and took a big puff from the ciggie.
- A breather? - Morozov repeated after him, his tone eerily unreadable. - There are no “breathers” in life. It always kicks you while you’re down. - he booted Jason in the ribs, as if to exemplify his point. There was something personal in that kick, but was it really aimed at Jason?
Dirk kept his mouth shut. Misha was right. All three of them knew it to be true somewhere deep inside, each in their own way.
Ares took another lungful to finish the smoke and threw the butt into the sands of the arena. He grabbed onto the rebar fence, almost shoving his face in between the rods. His expression was solid as a rock.
- Pick yourself up, you pussy. - he yelled towards Jason who spat out some blood, the veins in his body bulging with a clear golden hue. - I’ve known some fine women with more grit than you.
- Shut up, you old drunk. - the youngster growled back with his head still down, but some renewed vigor finally reared its head. Unbeknownst to Jason, this forced the two men to crack a brief smile each.
- Oh, getting a little snappy, eh? - Dirk banged at the metal sheet with his foot, sending booming waves through the pit, each sound making Jason flinch a little. - I can kick your ass later, too, but first finish what you started, you pansy! How do you expect to tank bullets if you can’t take a hit?
- I told you to shut up! - He snapped back, fistfuls of sand crackling in his hands as he raged in frustration at his own incompetence. He talked big, but fell short. It was pathetic, but he just couldn’t shake this daze. The fucking Ruskie got him good.
- Did the cushy human life make you soft? Want me to come over and wipe that sorry looking mug of yours with a napkin? - Dirk kept pressuring, talking as much to the youngster as to himself. Jason couldn’t swim, but Fleece wouldn’t let him sink.
That seemed to have pushed Jason over the edge. With explosive force he pushed himself backwards in sheer frustration, shifting to a sitting position, and with a maddened roar slammed his thumbs deep into both his ears with all his might, spraying red and gold all around in an eruption of his own blood.
- Finally, some fucking peace and quiet! - He screamed at the top of his lungs, giving his thumbs a good twist.
- That’s more like it. - Morozov said under breath, flashing a crazy smile at the sight of this spectacle, unfazed by its grotesque nature, impressed by the lack of hesitation.
As soon as the grievous wounds appeared, however, they mended in a flash of gold, leaving behind not a single scratch, aside from the streaks of blood that now ran down the regenerator’s neck. With his balance center forcefully reset, Jason at last picked himself off the ground with a feral kind of look. This time, however, there was something else beside the bloodthirsty beast in those eyes. A kindling resolve and a sense of calmness.
- Good! - Dirk cheered, slamming his fist on the rebar so hard he shook off some rust. - Now kick his ass! Make it a 2-0 for us! - he exclaimed, the taste of victory still fresh in his mouth.
With Jason back in the fight, both contestants started circling around slowly, like wolves circling their prey. Being quite aware that he can no longer bum-rush the young lad with his composure returned, Misha proceeded to stabilize his breathing, looking for a good enough opening to present itself.
- Not gonna run in now? - Jason goaded. - No Russian obscenities to throw at me? What are you scared of?
- Don’t worry, malchik. - Morozov held back a click of the tongue as he felt a pang of frustration unlike anything he’d felt thus far during their fight. - I’m just building suspense before your inevitable date with the floor.
- You-
With the moment finally ripe, the king of the ring dashed in without hesitation. No holds barred, both in love and war, and he loved war very much.
In one fell swoop, he transgressed through the outer strike range of his opponent and got ready to start the assault from up close, but before the first strike could even connect, Dirk yelled out.
- Backsway!
As if acting on instinct not of his own, Jason swung backwards, being barely grazed by the Russian’s knuckles.
- Go!
Then he pounced forward, deciding to repay Morozov for their last exchange with interest.
Straight, hook, straight, hook - simple, compact strikes flew through the air, allowing Jason to recover before Misha could strike back. At the very last, the giant pressed the offense of his own. During this one-sided exchange, the focused face of the Ruskie spoke volumes of the oncoming onslaught. He didn’t feel pressed in any manner, but he was quite annoyed.
Not with Jason, but with Dirk’s backseating.
While Misha was bobbing and weaving away from Jason’s barrage, something he didn’t account for happened. His back touched the cold steel fence. He wasn’t paying enough attention to the bout.
A rookie mistake.
Morozov should have focused more on the scrap instead of Dirk’s meddling, but there were no second takes in war, no redos, or take-backs. The fault was entirely his.
So he simply needed to turn it around.
With his mind made up, the Russian simply looked towards the next strike coming from the Goliath and instead of dodging it, slammed his head into it. Jason didn’t expect it in the slightest and neither did Dirk, it seemed, as both paused for a split second too long.
As the big lad's arm recoiled from the impact with Misha’s forehead, the latter grabbed the man by the wrist and pulled him in. The sudden tug made the challenger stumble straight into an elbow.
Using his elbow bone as a blade, he cut Jason's brow ridge, causing blood to cover the giant’s eyes for a few seconds. Blinded and immobilized, there was no technique Jason could use against the upcoming barrage. Strike after strike, fists connected with his face.
Nose, jaw, chin, they were like ticks on a list. Once all those points suffered a solid strike, the Ruskie proceeded to simply hammer his opponent’s face repeatedly, as if through the monotony of repetition, trying to speed up his response.
- Tackle him!
Incapable of really seeing anything himself, Jason listened to Dirk and rammed the area from which the repetitive strikes were raining down upon him, hunkering down and spreading out his arms in an attempt to sweep the opponent off his feet and slam him into the hard, cold sand.
But something that neither Dirk nor Jason could expect happened. Jason grasped at air, as a sudden force suddenly planted his face into the ground. Dirk could only grasp the top of his head, seeing how that order backfired spectacularly.
Morozov, with nowhere to dodge as the giant’s arms cut off every escape route, took his charge head on, jumping over the charging bull and letting him slam face-first into the rebar behind his back. As the dazed beast fell into the sand, the Russian pacified him with a knee to the neck, pressing down on it with all his weight.
Young Chrysos couldn’t die from lack of oxygen, but he could certainly pass out, giving another round and the whole match away to the Russian and ruining Dirk’s streak.
- I guess I could go for a side-hustle as a matador, don’t you think? - Misha cackled, enjoying himself yet again.
Morozov lifted Jason’s head by the hair, and before he could react, slammed it back into the sand. Sweat dripping from his own face, he started stomping on the regenerator’s head, half buried in the sand, with no remorse or hesitation.
This was a losing position for the giant, no matter how one looked at it.
He was under constant attack, face-down on the ground. Getting back up would be extremely difficult, fighting back, impossible. But even in this hopeless situation, Dirk still racked his brain, going through any possible move from any school that he knew or practiced, but how could one recover from being pummeled into the ground? “We aren’t–”
A spark of inspiration appeared in Dirk’s head, but before he could even say anything, a miracle occurred.
Jason must have reached a similar conclusion, as his body mass suddenly shifted, tearing out a loud swear from the current champion’s throat.
While lying on the ground, Jason dug both his feet and hands into the sand, using it as a springboard, and launched himself forward, straight towards the Russian's supporting leg, grabbing it with his teeth.
This was a dirty fighting ring, inhuman by nature, but Jason’s very essence went beyond what Morozov got used to after years of curb-stomping pretenders to his crown. Caught up in approaching this fight from a human perspective and losing himself in the high of a battle, Morozov forgot himself completely and made a terrible miscalculation. Astonished, he fell to the ground, only to be suddenly hoisted upwards by the leg still clenched in Jason’s teeth.
- Yeah! Fucking get him! - Dirk yelled, letting his excitement slip out. - Now swing him around into a right hook! Knock his lights out!
Following orders, Jason did just that, but before push came to shove, he suddenly let the Russian go with a jerk, sending him flying across the “Sandbox”.
Misha flew, then fell, crashed and tumbled, barely managing to lose all the momentum before his bald head slammed against the corrugated steel. Gasping for air, he got on all fours, coughing and wheezing.
- Jason? What the fuck happened? - the backseat gamer of this fight tried to get an answer to the incomprehensible turn of events.
But then he looked at the young giant more attentively.
He grasped the gist of it.
Jason was curled up on the ground with both hands clutched between his legs.
Misha sprung back to his feet, and only smiled when Dirk gazed at him with confusion, which slowly turned to annoyance.
- Did you really have to punch him in the nuts?
- Yep. It’s a dirty fighting ring, what did you expect? - Morozov grinned, showing off his pearly whites.