Foreigner pressed Rosko up against the wall, the tip of his weapon digging into the lapel of the mans soft underbelly. “This wasn’t part of the plan, you slimy little shit. What was that about making deals back there?” Rosko yelped but Foreigner pressed his hand over his mouth, allowing the point dig deeper and deeper, the tension for his skin to break free with blood and muscle a mere hairs breath away. “Now you’re gonna explain to me why I had to walk into that lion’s den like that and whatever else might be waiting for me in that chamber or I’m going to gut you here and now.” He eased on the weapon and Rosko took an uneven breath.

“It was all in de phone call, I swear it. Da Boss knew a Distortion walked into his place. Its gotta do with de other kids or that monitor or somethin’ else but he can smell ‘em when they come inside and likes to keep ‘em around for special bouts. Said if I gave you a lick of what you were walkin’ into, I’d lose my job here and suffer an ‘accident’ if I tried findin’ work again without his permission.” Rosko’s eyes were wild, his teeth a mixture of stained and real gold as he attempted to keep face by smiling. “They call him a ‘Collector’ round these parts, amassing all sortsa strange things people have gambled and walked in with. I tried to give you a warning before we went up, honest, since you’re buddies with Mal-Chin and all that, but my hands were tied.” A pregnant pause, the two staring at one another in a dark corner of the establishment, before Foreigner gave in with a sigh and removed the blade from his stomach.

“His conditions. They’re a part of this too, right? He’s got something set up to fuck the both of us over. And then there was that green flame.” Rosko’s complexion paled at the mention of the color, merely shaking his head and searching around the room for potential eavesdroppers.

“He owns a gambling establishment. Of course he’s tryin’ to give you de ol’ reach around with his rules. Which doesn’t bode well for your friend, at all.”

“Why wouldn’t it bode well for her?” Foreigner leaned in.

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A small crowd of gladiators had formed to look at the lesson being provided. Itzhak, muscles rippling, made his squat stance and stretched out his arms as if ready to stop a locomotive with his bare hands.

“Little Fox! The power is in the core! The legs, they provide strength and stability to handle even the toughest of charges.” Just then, he nodded at another participant, a man as burly and as dense as Itzhak, taking a breath before running into him with all of his might. Itzhak pressed his hands on the participants shoulders and flexed, his body firm against the impact. “It is here where you can take advantage. Your opponent has moved into your sphere of influence. Take this opportunity. Teach them not to be so headstrong.” Itzhak whispered something to the participant before shifting his grip from shoulders to forearms, lifting him up and gently setting him down near the front of the crowd. The few gladiators paying attention clapped at the display.

“But Itzhak, I can’t just lift my opponent.” Foxtail was unamused. Although Itzhak had the enthusiasm to teach her of the Thorn Bed and its creatures, he lacked the communicative skills or wherewithal to frame his advice to fit her needs.

“If you cannot lift and they enter your sphere of influence, you must do what it is you’re capable of doing. And you must also see if what you do in combat is compatible with the weakness of the opponent. If I cannot lift, I adapt, as should you Little Fox.” Foxtails frowned deepend.

“And how does this relate to the creatures or my upcoming opponent?”

“Well the advice you’re looking for from me depends on what kind of fighter you are. Are you a creature, like those who have sunk into their emotions, base and raw like an open wound given form? Or are you a gladiator, like myself? Someone who has no time for trivialities like internal struggles in the heat of battle.” His eyes narrowed at her, the first time that she had felt an onset of fighting spirit come from Itzhak like a predator assessing the quality of their prey. The hairs on her skin stood on end as she waited for the uneasy feeling in her stomach to pass. He continued, “If the Boss has anything to do with the fight, I am certain that you will face off against someone you are incompatible with. He is cruel like that. ‘Serves for good entertainment, to see em squirm for their boons like ravenous dogs’ he has mentioned to me in the past. The air of desperation clings to you like the musk of those seeking death and that is when you are at your most vulnerable.” A bell began ringing within the room, a number flashing above to call the next fighter, Foxtails number. Itzhak gave her a smile, the peculiar look on his face replaced with warmth. “Overcome that and you will have no trouble at all. Good luck, Little Fox!” She sighed. What a load of nonsense.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

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The room that Foreigner sat in was as well lit as Mr. Briggs personal chambers, complete with sparse black seating for the man and his honored guest. Rosko took his place to the side of Foreigner and whispered “Since I’m vouchin’ for ya here, da way you act is gonna look bad on me too! I’m beggin’ for some restraint on your part. If Mr. Briggs is gonna fuck ya, he’s gonna do it when you’re about close to turnin’ things over on da House.” Heavyset steps slowly approached the door that Foreigner had entered from, accompanied by a set of diminutive pitpats.

“We’ll play it by ear.” Foreigner replied before setting himself up as an observant guest. He looked at the door to see Mr. Briggs open the door, the milky eyed girl in the burlap sack following along with the dazed smile on her face. The man gave Foreigner no sign of acknowledgement, simply walking to the edge of the window seating of the room and waving his meaty arms to the crowd.

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“Ladies and gentleman, it appears that our esteemed owner is here with us! What an ostentatious occasion for what is sure to be a riveting battle.” The announcer was a distinct mismatch for the ambiance of the arena. While the arena was covered in barbed wire and gray jutted spikes, the moniker of Thorn Bed readily apparent, the announcer was a lithe individual of indeterminate sex wearing a leotard, a crooked crown, and a lions mask. The choice of clothes were jarring to look at and yet the voice tied to it had an infectious enthusiasm that was riling up the audience. “In this corner, we have the new combatant entering into the Thorn Bed! She’s crass and rude and tiny to boot! But don’t let her stature deceive the violence hiding inside of her. She is, Foxtail the Ferocious!” The crowd went wild as trumpets blared. A cage rattled and shook as Foxtail walked out to the center of the arena. She was gobsmacked, staring at the myriad faces looking down at her, eyes hungry for blood and carnage, hawking bets on her potential blood loss and missing limbs. “Give the crowd a couple of words, little lady!” The mic was thrust upon her as they stared in silence, waiting to hear from her.

You’re out of your depth. Depth. You should just run away now… there’s something dangerous on the other side! Side. She watched her little echoes fidget and squirm away from the opponents entryway, every muscle in her body wound up to run away.

“I have nothing to fear. Bring it on.” The fire fueling her kept the cloying echoes away. The crowd erupted into cheers and applause.

“What words! What cold heat! Do we think she can handle what’s behind the door?” The announcer pivoted around the arena, waving the mic around to register responses from the crowd. “Well, we will see how ready that fighting spirit is when she fights against our own, Manic Maribelle!” Foxtail watched the gates on the other end of the arena rattle and open to reveal a sheepish girl like herself emerge from the darkness, looking at the crowd staring down at her and shuddering at each of their yells. The announcer threw the mic to Maribelle, the cord firmly wrapped around their hand.

With a yelp, she caught the mic, “Please! Please don’t make me do this! Stop looking at me!” She pleaded to the crowd, with their cheers growing louder and more carnal the further she cried out. Her plea falling on deaf ears, the cord was yanked away from her fingers by the announcer.

“Give it here for Maribelle, everyone! She is always a joy to have on stage!” Another wave of applause came thundering through the arena. Foxtail felt an intense level of unease surface within her, something not even her fire could drown out.

She readied her stance for whatever came next.