Anti, after being taken in by Dark, is showing much improvement since their first throw down, and is becoming very strong, but soon Dark is beginning to realize something very alarming... will he still be the one standing on his throne after Anti se...
Colors. Flashing, bright, neon colors. He felt them underneath his eyelids, within his bones, burning in his mind. It hurt more than anything he had ever felt before, especially around his gaping wounds. He felt himself screaming, screaming until his lungs ached. He hated this. He wanted to go home. He didn't want to be here. What had he ever done to deserve this?
What felt like eons later, the agony subsided, and the colors ceased. He fell to the cold, stone ground, overwhelmingly spent. He couldn't manage to move a muscle, he could barely breathe. The rival stepped toward his shambled form, the weak body shaking in feebleness and fear. The injured individual moaned in pain, salty tears pouring from his eyes faster than gunfire. His scratched-up face was lifted by a violent pull on his hair, followed by his own whimpers. His eyes opened slowly to look his opponent in the face, his white pupils fogged by the sobs.
"You should not have taken this job, little dove," the stranger uttered, his voice reverberating through his chest with a rich rumble. The weakened being would have snapped at him, make a snarky remark about his ensemble, but alas he could only wail with what strength he had. The strain on his roots was beginning to bother him more as the intruder held a tighter grip, and clenched it more tensely. He wept frailly, silently begging for mercy. The outsider only chuckled, finding amusement in the younger's tear-stained face.
"Despite your loss, I praise you. Your power has potential you know. Perhaps..." he trailed off, running his thumb over the injured's cheek, the digit was unnaturally cold and made him flinch at the contact. Who did this guy think he is?! He nearly just murdered him in cold blood and now he's here, complimenting him. His anguish was only increasing, slashes and bruises only becoming worse the longer he didn't take care of them. He needed help...
"...perhaps I can alleviate your capabilities... you are quite youthful to be facing me. Whoever sent you is obviously not very considerate, hm? I must ask you," he closed into him, leaning nearer to the wounded's face, "would you rather work for me, little dove?"
He had no clue what to do (not that there was much he could do, anyhow). What should he do? If he said no, he could kill him immediately, squish him under his shoe like an ant. If he said yes, who knows what this guy would do to him? What if he's worse than his past instructors? In the moment, it did not matter. Every inch of him felt like it was on fire, he wanted to be healed more than anything. He pressed his lips together and mewled gently, the most he could achieve at the moment.
"Then," he released the fistful of hair, dropping the younger's head back onto the tiled flooring of the coliseum with a solid smack. He let out a groan of relief, his body giving in and fainting.
"it is done."
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