The Underground (Cyberpunk Au)

Scarlett Blood

Going to his fight, Connor was less cocksure than before. He didn't relish the idea of going in just to get kicked about for a bit before the other person was declared a winner. Still, he was going to put up a good show for the crowd at least and hope that they'd still cheer him on after his defeat.

The other side of the door thundered with the crowd's excitement. Connor stood and waited until it swung open and he stepped through. Once the initial blinding light stopped burning his eyes, he looked around. The first thing he spotted wasn't his opponent; rather, it was a familiar figure on the other side of the ring, just outside the cage. In a fancy suit was Cobalt, sleazy in her getup. She didn't look at Connor, eyes too focussed on the figure standing to her right, inside the ring. Scarlett.

"For the first time tonight, we have Little Fury facing off against the most lethal WR400 who is also the prettiest model I've ever set eyes on. Will this delight swipe our own Fury off his feet? Or will she submit to our reigning champion like all others before him?"

For the first time in the ring, true fear trickled through Connor. He remembered going against Scarlett all too well. Despite appearances, Scarlett was one of the most ruthless fighters Connor had ever encountered. Set her on a path with an objective and she'd get there, no matter the consequences. It was an admirable trait when Scarlett was on his side, but now that they were at odds, Connor wasn't certain he wasn't going to be carried out of the ring in a bag.

The lights went down, Scarlett turned to him, face cold and emotion free. Part of Connor had hoped there might be a flicker of recognition, to reassure him that she wasn't going to grind Connor to dust under her heels. The klaxon blared and the fight was on.

Fear fuelled his desperation, Connor remembered back at training, how Scarlett snuck an arm under his, used her shoulder to lift and pin him only to deliver a blow to knock him out. It took weeks for those bruises to fade. In light of those memories, Connor kept his distance, kicked more than usual and dodged Scarlett's reaching grasps, there was no way he could win a grapple. Not like he was going to win at all but his ego still urged him to disregard orders and try.

The crowd jeered around them, fuelled into a frenzy by the fight. It almost lulled Connor into a sense of false security. He dodged another tight punch but missed the vicious undercut that followed it into his ribs. It drove all the air from him and Connor struggled not to double over as he tried to fill his lungs with a gasp. Internally he cursed himself for forgetting Scarlett could analyze and pre-construct scenarios in fractions of a second thanks to her upgrades. No wonder she aimed for his ribs, the bitch probably saw his weakness.

There wasn't time to retaliate; Connor quickly fell back to a defensive position as Scarlett pressed her advantage home. Blows rained down on him, a sucker punch to his stomach that had Connor on his knees and coughing. From his position, one arm wrapped around his midriff, Connor made a valiant attempt to get up, one arm reached for Scarlett. It was grabbed and twisted. Connor tried to jerk away from the tension, something he wouldn't have done but the pain was too much. Something gave way with a wet pop and his shoulder erupted in fire.

Scarlett let him go then; his arm fell limply to his side, jerked out of joint. The crowd screamed in ecstasy, bayed for his blood. Connor was on his knees, helpless to do anything but watch as Scarlett stalked closer to him, loomed above him. His eyes slipped to the side where Cobalt was staring at them impassively. She probably got off on watching Connor get the snot kicked out of him. Fingers tightened on his head and tipped Connor's face up so he would look Scarlett in the eyes.

"Do you submit?"

The words were hissed at him, full of victory and hatred. Connor didn't reply, he dropped his gaze in submission and when Scarlett shoved his shoulder he went sprawling on the floor. Around them the warehouse erupted in cheering, their new favorite had been found.

Hands nudged Connor to get up and with some effort, he shambled out of the ring. It shouldn't have been a surprise to note that other than his shoulder – which was his own doing – all the blows Scarlett landed were momentary agony but nothing debilitating. His relief at that was short lived when he saw Barstow in the changing room.

The punch to his face was unexpected; Connor didn't even have time to pull up a hand to protect himself. Dazed from the blow, he didn't stand a chance of preventing the consequent ones. While Scarlett had been cold and calculating in her strikes, Barstow laid into him with anger. He hit everywhere he could, ribs, stomach, face. When Connor's knees gave out, overwhelmed by it all he was kneed, kicked and stomped on.

Nobody interrupted, stepped forward to defend him and after what felt like a lifetime, Barstow finally stood over him, chest heaving with exertion. The ground under Connor's cheek was stained red as blood flowed from his nose.

"You lost me a lot of money tonight," Barstow seethed. "I don't take kindly to that."

If the world hadn't been swaying dangerously, blinking in and out of focus then Connor would have been tempted to make a retort. As it was, all he could do was let out a pained shout as a foot connected with his ribs once more before Barstow's figure wobbled out of his vision.

Even when Barstow was gone, nobody dared approach Connor. He lay on the ground, panting and spluttering weakly. Behind him, the door opened and someone walked back out from their fight, they stepped over him like he was just some trash, abandoned on the floor. Eventually, he managed to gain control over his breathing, his arm shook as he tried to push himself up. But he made no noise. That had been instilled in him from an early age. The more something hurt, the less noise you made.

Finally, he was up on unsteady feet and he stumbled towards the exit. The stairs seemed an impossible feat but Connor managed to drag himself up. The hood of his jumper covered most of his face, so when he got on the bus he didn't have to worry about scaring the locals.

To an outsider he probably looked like a staggering drunk, shuffling from light post to fence to hold on to. Part of him wished he could be simply drunk after a good night out. Not that he'd ever really done that...