Bars rattled. Obi rolled his shoulders, and set his feet.
The roar arrived like a storm - first a wind, then suddenly thunder.
"LET THE SCRAPPER'S GAUNTLEEET"
(dramatic pause)
"BEGIIIIN!!!"
The crowd went wild.
"LADIES AND NOT-SO-GENTLENEN, WE'RE KICKING THINGS OFF WITH OBI THE LOUUUD!" the voice bounced off railings. "Versuuus… MORROW THE COLOSSUUUS!"
A few laughs leaked out of the crowd. Then the "Colossus" stepped through the gate - a boy built like a broomstick someone wrapped in a tunic.
Knees as thick as elbows. Big eyes. Everyone laughed anyway. The Scrapper's Gauntlet would cheer for a brick if it promised violence.
Obi blinked. "Oh no!" he exclaimed, loud enough for the back rows to hear: "they've sent me a siege engine!"
Morrow swallowed so hard he almost choked on air. He raised his hands in what was supposed to be a boxing stance. It just looked like the way a person raises their hands at an overexcited dog.
Obi lifted his own hands, brass glinting.
"Hey" Obi said, softer now, loud enough only for Morrow to hear. "You getting paid to be alive or to fill up spots?"
Morrow's mouth worked. "T-to… to-"
"Great answer!" Obi exclaimed. "Here's the deal. We make it pretty, you nap nicely, walk out with all your teeth, which I assume you're renting too. Yeah?"
Then, he mumbled to himself. "Someone paid him to occupy a position, so they have less real opponents, huh? The bastards..."
A guard snapped his baton once. Start.
Obi made a show for the crowd - hopped twice, shoulders loose, grinning. Morrow flicked out a jab that couldn't have knocked down a chihuahua. Obi caught it with his palm, politely tapped the boy's shoulder, then kicked his stomach with half his force.
Air left the "Colossus" sounding like a honk. Obi swiveled, turned his wrist, and hit under the jaw. He learned that move from Louissa armed with a broom.
The crowd went wild. Boos mixed with cheers. Obi waved at the them with both hands, then crouched and set Morrow gently on his side.
"Oh my, the Colossus fell" Obi announced. "By crippling charisma."
He raised Morrow's limp arm like a champion's. The crowd howled. The guard shrugged - fair enough. He jabbed his baton toward Obi's place. "Go."
Obi jogged back, grabbed the free water he was offered (because it was free) and drank like he truly earned it. Then he dumped the rest over his hair.
Between rounds, the Gauntlet was all sound bits and quick words between all the cheering.
"...split that guy's eyebrow…"
"...Hatewick put him on the floor with a single swing…"
"...graffiti cans? One second, you didn't even see her…"
Obi polished his knuckle with the back of his shirt and threw a wink at an exasperated medic that saw a bruise. "No need. I'm allergic to taxes."
"Next!!" the voice cracked into the pen.
"HATEWIIIICK versus OBI THE LOUUD!"
"Well, well, well." Obi told himself, "we manifest what we mock."
Hatewick arrived like a walking wall. Baldie, familiar face.
And the tattoos? We've seen them before. Broken chain links at the wrists, the heart with teeth on his shoulder, and letters hammered across knuckles with spelling that needed attention more than the tournament itself:
H-A-I-T.
"Hey! Am I having Deja Vu or something?" Obi asked.
"That your toys?" Hatewick rumbled.
"Uhh... You already asked. What, is your brain seriously a walnut?" Obi asked pleasantly, peering at the man's fist.
"And buddy, that tattoo again… Are we saving the grammar for later? I respect budgeting, but come onn!"
A mean ripple of laughter moved through the seats. The guard smacked the gate with his baton, signaling them to hurry.
Hatewick charged like a cart on a hill. Obi took one neat step from where he would have been squished, and smacked the big man's ear with his palm.
Hatewick snarled, pivoted and threw a punch meant to ruin a face. Obi dodged, and wrote a little note on Hatewick's ribs with the knuckles: "dear sir, your liver."
Hatewick's eyes watered. He blinked furiously and tried to crush Obi into a hug he wouldn't survive.
"Awwee" Obi said, slipping under and around. "You brought cuddles."
He tried a jab at the mouth, and Hatewick bit on it, turning his head with perfect timing. Hatewick stumbled. Obi slid his shoulder under the man's center, and made him trip.
A barrel falls fast. I mean, fast enough.
The sand whoomped as Hatewick fell. The crowd went up in a shower of amused sounds.
Hatewick tried to get up on instinct. Obi adjusted his knuckles, with a foot on him
"Say "hate", but correctly this time." Obi suggested cheerfully, "Or, the other option would be for you to personally experience what a smith's hand can do with some brass. Your choice, really! I'm fine with both…"
Hatewick's reply was mostly strangled vowels. The guard, carefully watching, slid his baton between them.
"Enough"
Obi took a step back, bowed with ridiculous flourish, and shouted at the rails: "Pretty sure he spelled N-A-P!"
He returned to the pen on a wave of noise.
Whispers again:
"... couldn't even touch her... Didn't see…"
"...what even happened!?..."
"The mask..."
"NOWW, THE MOMENT YOU'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOOR" the caller tore the speakers, quite literally shouting at his heart's content.
(another very dramatic pause)
"THE FINAAAL!!"
The speakers roared again.
"CINDERETTE - versus - OBI THE LOUUUD!"
The gate sighed open once again. Cinderette walked out, with a weird presence.
The crowd's excitement suddenly dissapeared, seing her again. She was quite short, in a dusty cloak that reached the knee, boots that didn't slip on sand. Her mask was a smooth oval with nothing but blank eyes and graffiti patterns.
She pulled out two spray paint cans from the inside or her cloak.
Obi tilted his head. "So we're decorating, I see! Really love a theme!"
No answer. The mask looked right at him.
The baton hitting metal sounded like a proper gong.
Cinderette didn't waste time. She twitched her wrists and popped both cans with her thumbs. But color did not pour out. White smoke did. It made the air feel bitter and pungent, a smell that quickly crawled up Obi's lungs.
"Ah, of course…" Obi coughed, blinking. "Art."
His vision smudged with tears. The crowd's noise sounded muffled and far away. He dodged sideways on instinct, but she moved quickly in the gas.
Obi immediately did what every smith learns by the second burn: he reached for his goggles. They were in his pocket because... Of course: They were always in his pocket.
He snapped them over his eyes with a practiced flick.
He wasn't completely blind. He could see, not perfect, just enough. His vision cleared a bit through the tear gas.
"Cute" he rasped into the smoke. "But forge fumes are ten times worse."
Obi froze for a split second, thinking. Smoke moves like water if you give it a flow. He squinted through the lenses and found what he needed: vents. Low, along the walls.
He ran toward one, almost slamming into the wall. When he reached a grille, he squatted and slapped the edge. The airflow was very weak, but present.
Another hiss to his left. He slid that way instead, coughing.
Cinderette had enough time to flick another can toward his chest like a nasty bouquet. Obi hit it aside with the back of his wrist, sending the thing skittering.
"Rude!" he wheezed. "No gift receipt?"
Suddenly, she reappeared behind him, almost, almoost striking... Obi's family jewels. But luckily, he moved right in time.
He did the stupidest smart thing he could think of: he grabbed the can she'd just thrown, and pinned it over the vent. The flow stopped, then violently spit the gas outward, right back at her.
Her outline was more visible, as she was trying to get rid of the gas, now inside of her mask.
"Hello there!" Obi smiled.
He moved quickly. Two steps, a low sweep that almost made her fall. She shifted to compensate with a kick. He expected that. So going the other way, his fingers caught the edge of her cloak.
Obi gripped the cloak, pulled it towards him, trapping her.
She tried to punch, but the distance was too small, so be easily parried with the back of his palm. She went for his eyes, trying to take his glasses off.
"Please, I'm wearing my good pair." Obi protested.
For a second it was ridiculous - almost like a dance step in fog. He dipped her like a drama prince, one arm firmly holding her waist, the other controlling balance.
"If we're doing this, at least let me treat you to some noodles." Obi laughed again.
She snapped her head forward, a headbutt. More like a mask-butt, but he reacted just in time - it only skimmed his cheek.
He spun, bringing her with him, ending the performance in a pin that used the cloak as a trap.
The smoke thinned enough for the crowd to barely see what was really happening.
Obi loosened first, expecting her to hit again, but Cinderette was completely still. He helped her sit and - because he is a real problem - elegantly offered a hand up.
The mask said nothing. But you could swear it looked away. She took the hand anyway, fingers cool and delicate.
After a few seconds of silence, the old speakers roared again.
"WINNER? OBI THE LOUUUUD!"
The arena detonated. Sound poured down the rails. Some kids on shoulders beat the railings with palms. Vendors forgot to sell their stuff. Even the healers smiled like they couldn't help it.
Obi raised a fist, then both, then bowed in four directions because four is funnier than one. He popped the goggles down from his face, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and sucked in a breath that wasn't flavored like chemicals. Cinderette was already walking away, cloak swinging, mask unreadable.
"Hey! Cinderella, or whatever!" Obi shouted after her.
She took off her mask and looked back with red cheeks, visibly flustered, revealing beautiful long black hair.
"It's Cinderette" she shouted back.
"Ooh! You got quite the looks, too! Uhmm, I'll be at the forge, from tomorrow on! You'll find it, the best smithy in the underworks!"
The winner's purse looked heavier than he expected when the clerk pressed it into his arms.
"Woooah, the pot really DID double!" Obi grunted with the widest smile of his life.
The brass token for "finalist" became "winner". He hooked both on his belt and smiled at himself.
On his way out, strangers slapped his shoulder and shouted his name like he was one of them. Which... Safe to say, was now true.
"Obi! Loudmouth! Walnut-cracker!" They invented the stupidest nicknames.
Obi waved, then tapped the purse and the winner token.
"World's loudest smith, huh?" He proudly told himself.
And he walked into the noise that was suddenly, gloriously, his.
For a moment, everything was perfect.
But something didn't feel quite right. He stumbled a couple of steps, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
Blood.
"…seriously?" he muttered, trying to laugh.
His chest ached. A slow burn crawled up his throat again. The leftover fumes still clung to his lungs.
Obi blinked hard.
A drop of blood hit the floor. Then another.
His hand smacked the wall to stay upright.
"Hey. Loud one. You good?" She was there - Cinderette - mask in her hand, black hair loose.
Obi opened his mouth. Maybe for a joke, maybe for something more serious.
But only a wheeze came out.
Obi's vision suddenly darkened, and he fell to the ground.