Month 2
Brutality and hopelessness are all they want us to know in here. My forearm pressed against my opponent's ear, and I drove my fist into his ribs until he backhanded me away. We both scramble to our feet, the confined cell being our battleground. Guards and prisoners shout their heads off as they sense the shift in the fight. We have gambled away weeks' and months' worth of salary in Stillwater. He slips a jab, and I block his hook to my ribs. The strength of his punch threw me against the wall. Even with my build, I'm still one of the weakest prisoners in here. Slipping his next assaults took the utmost focus, as he sensed the end, and he was right. The gamblers and spectators bellowed louder, filling the cell with noise that's more welcoming than the miserable silence. Using my elbows and keen reflexes, I slipped most of his desperate punches. Between the haymakers, I land consecutive crosses that achieve little. He's running off of pure desperation. We're both cornered rats, but only one of us gets to survive to live in fear another day. His punches are becoming slower, more pained than anything. My peppering with straight crosses is starting to take its toll. Every punch broke something in him: a hope, a dream, the wish to return to someone, something that drove him to survive to this day. Whatever that motivation was, I'll carry that for him, as I carry every dream that I've ended. I pulled back a fist caked with his blood. But he kept coming, determined to land the winning punch. I held my heart closed as I stepped to the side, slipping under his wild left haymaker hook. My Zaunites are precious to me but are dangerous due to the mistreatment of the overlords of Piltover. With little opportunities available, we take from each other when we should have been taking from them. But we were born into nothing and fated to die in the same nothing. If I want to give my family the Zaun they deserve, others must fall for me to rise. His jaw cracked against my palm. It was the first time I bothered to use an open palm strike, and it was effective. The crowd mostly wailed in disappointment as he fell to the floor. The other half cheered, and I locked the man's arm in a hold and snapped it, causing him to scream against his shattered jaw. My palm slammed against his temple, making his skull bounce off the floor. He lies mostly motionless on the floor. Looking down at him and hearing the crowd still cheer for the guy to get up, I can guess why he's here. Only lifers and death row inmates fight so brutally. Not everyone would bother with the unpredictability of cell fighting. Too many have been beaten to death. Mostly, Zaunites would take as few risks as possible, only allowing the Enforcers to beat them. At least the Enforcers would use their enchanted gloves to partially heal you. Inmates, however, have no such luxuries. Before I made the conscious decision on his fate, my subconscious made it for me. The silence was deafening. My feet are covered in brain matter. As I lift my feet, view the bottom of my feet, pulling out a piece of his skull that pierced the skin. I turned away and stood in the corner. The sounds of shifting feet, disappointed mummerings, the exchange of coin, the removal of the body, and the approaching Enforcer.
"Hands on the wall," she demanded.
I did so, and she began to pat me down. There were fights where people hid pokers and knives on their person. To this day, I never discovered how. I made my own method, of course, and that earned me a week in the hole. Never doing that again. Her hands slide between my hips and around my inner thighs. I know better than to say anything now. This one has it out for me.
"You almost made it up to me." She roughly grabs my throat from behind and presses me against her body. Her grip around my throat only grew tighter the more I struggled. "Only 404 more fights to go." She turns me around, takes her helmet off, and thrusts her mouth against mine. Her tongue takes the blood in my mouth and also my breath. Her fist collides under my ribs, striking my liver. One of the worst places to get punched is my liver, second only to my groin, and I was taught the difference. My knees grew weak, and I stumbled to the floor. It's there where I wait to get another kick to the ribs, but nothing happens. The lingering anticipation was the next strike that brought further pain. Taking a chance, I struggle to my feet.
Opmaga locks eyes with me, seemingly amazed at my defiance in breaking down. "No matter what I do to you, you never break..."
"Wouldn't be your favorite pick if I did." I retorted. I know I shouldn't, as nothing good ever happens when I do, but I just can't help but be a smartass.
Opmaga laughs and backhands me, almost sending me into the wall. Hits like that don't bother me much, I guess these Enforcers can teach me a few things.
"Keeping you alive was the best decision I made..." She placed her elbow on my head and leaned on me. "Let me think, there is a fight next week, I need you to throw it. Betting against you will make me so much money, I can retire afterwards."
I tried to maintain her weight. She isn't fat, at least I don't think. But judging by how hard she hits, I'd say she's decent, but nowhere close to Vi's power. "So this job pays high, has near no council oversight, and allows gambling where any officer can retire? And no one asks questions?"
Opmaga turns towards me again and grabs my throat. "And after you get out," she seductively runs a finger down my face. "I can...adopt you..."
I try to adjust my neck in her grip. "You would be my fourth mother in that case." Opmaga raises a brow. "Just saying, that's just another birthday and a maternal figure for for the holidays." She shakes her head while chuckling. "Getting you all together in one bar on the same day would be chaotic—" She drove a knee in my gut and threw me down in the dark corner of the cell.
As if I wasn't suffering a tummy ache already, the bread they serve here is beyond stale. Opmaga turns around and starts walking towards the cell door. "I can't wait to see you get the shit beat out of you." She locks the cell door and walks away.
With no cellmate, I have all the room to myself. Crying is off the list, as I need to be conscious to do that. I'm in between the waking world and eternity. I could dive into the sea of eternity, but my heart needs to see my family. Flying from my dream state to the Last Drop, I see the bar functioning as normal. It's busy today, Vander seems to be putting in effort to distract himself by bartending. He has better equipment, experimental drink mixers, and something that looks like icy mush being pushed out of some machine and into a cone. Watching closely, I see people eating it and shivering at the touch. Whatever that is, it looks...different. Phasing through the floors. I find Ekko and Powder hard at work, making various devices. I glide over to them, and I'm devastated at the sight of them. Ekko looks like he's carrying the world on his shoulders. The prototype of the hoverboard was being pieced together before him. The instrument of the firelights, being born without me. Then there's Powder, hair braided and sleep-deprived, but driven. In her hands and filling the bucket beside her are bombs and traps of various designs. She's looking more like her other half, and that scares the crap out of me. Powder's hands stop working for a moment, and she slowly shifts her eyes towards me. For that brief moment, I almost thought that she could see me. She approached me and reached her hand out. A fluttering feeling spurred in my guts, and I almost reached my hand to meet hers. But then she pulled a drawer out in front of me. Reaching inside through folders and stacks of papers, she pulls out something that made my dream body fluctuate. I think that made her flinch and look up towards me again. Then she pulls her hand back, along with papers filled with those familiar symbols.
"Still messing with that thing?" Ekko grumbled as he snapped compartments within his prototype shut.
Powder spread the papers along the workbench beside her. "Viktor's taking too long to figure it out, so I'm going to do it." She sounds determined...what...she's in contact with Viktor? The last thing I want her to do is to make trips to Piltover, especially their academy. The last thing I want is for a cult to get their hands on her the way they got to me.
Ekko looks over at Powder's weary but laser-focused eyes. "You're doing this for him, aren't you?"
She whips her face toward Ekko, her eyes red from lack of sleep and salty tears. "I miss him," she whispered before leaning against him.
Ekko embraced her, rubbing her head. "I miss him too. Causing trouble without him isn't the same."
Powder chuckled instead of crying. "You know, we can make enough noise to get Owen's attention..." She pulls back, and they lock eyes.
"Just to let him know we didn't forget him?" Ekko guessed as Powder nodded.
"He might not see it, but it's not only for him, it's for the others." Powder returns to her project.
Ekko cleans the gears in this hoverboard. "If we do this, we do it together, we can't get caught."
They better not. Powder glances over in my direction and picks up a paper with those familiar writings. Before I could get a closer look, I was pulled back to my body. It's still dark, and I'm still in the same position, partially broken and still breathing. The only source of light in this place is the light in the hall. Long lamps above stretch along the center of the ceiling. It's the only form of advanced technology in here. Footsteps rumble down the hall. Must be the reason why I was forced back, higher instincts and all. Pushing myself up with my dominant arm, I sit up and wait for my possible additional whooping. Two Enforcers approached the cell door, one looks softer than the other, and the other looks rounder than the last. They slid the door open and approached me, revealing the source of the rumbling. A medical cart.
Both are wearing their helmets, their visors making them seem mechanical in a way, detached from humanity. "On the bed."
The nicest enforcers I've met, but they also didn't hit me yet. It took a while, as lying down on my own without being knocked down or knocked out was sort of strange to me. They begin asking me basic questions with dry curiosity. Their practice is professional and clinical. Singed and Viktor would be unimpressed by their ability to remain detached. The round one seems timid, as if they're apprehensive of my appearance or my reputation. The softer one just wants to get this over with. They hesitate in touching my arm, checking for any injuries. Every question they ask concerning my health, I pass off as a minor inconvenience. Doing so forced them to thoroughly examine me. It was a tactic that I stumbled upon while living every day in here. Mostly, they rush through examinations, not caring much for our health, unless we were prize cell fighters. Winning more often than not granted me certain privileges. Access to experienced fighters, tutelage under veteran cell fighters, first pickings at the best food in here, which isn't much to brag about, and honest medical treatment. The daily beatings, however, are more or less the same. The only reason why you wouldn't get beat is either it's just not your day, they're bored of beating people, they're too tired of beating people, or they just forgot...from beating too many people. They removed a syringe from my arm and placed a bandage over the wound.
"Get some rest," the round one commanded with a rattled voice.
Packing up their equipment, they exit the cell and slam it shut, locking it securely. Hearing them walk away pulls something at my chest. That was the first moment of something close to nurturing I've ever had. Standing to my feet, I begin to work out. Leaving myself to idle will ruin my mind. 100 back-to-back squats, until I drop. It's not a good idea, but I have to risk sore leg muscles. Running in here is not an option, but jumping and fighting are. Focusing on the little things helps. The little things and fighting—that's all we have. Our entire world is nothing but cold stone and confined spaces. Occasionally, we're let out to either eat or gamble fighting. Then there's the hole, that damn hole. If you're a bad boy or girl, you get put down there. To think, to sleep, to wonder, to sweat, and to dodge all the unmentionable waste that falls down there. Everything this place represents is what the abyss must be, but worse. In fact, the Enforcers behave exactly like the Abyss Walkers. My legs give out, and I collapse on my back. Memories of those Abyss Walkers in that future vision flood my mind. Impossibly tall, massive beings that break through the darkened clouds. Nothing could tear them down, at least no weapon I made. Only the living eye could make them stumble and fall. And if I recall correctly, those walkers had to do a lot of stumbling before they finally fell. With my eyes closed, within the quiet prison, I calculate the sacrifices. As the bitterness of my decisions brings the metal taste in my mouth, my resolve is reinforced, the sacrifices had to be made. That and many others must be done to secure Zaun for everyone. As I breathed deeply, I forced my tense and constantly alert body to relax. The next cell fight is coming, the fight that I'm...encouraged to take a dive in. This is one of many sacrifices that are demanded of me. That guard, that damn Enforcer.
They move us to the special arena, enforcers and lifer inmates alike crowd the hall. It's the only event where Enforcers and Inmates make peace only to gamble with our lives. Our feet and hands are wrapped. Only wearing trousers, they slap our bodies with their handprints in ink. It's a prison ritual, the stakes have been raised behind our backs. The Chilean guy beside me looks well built but not physically impressive in terms of combat, and that's what will make him dangerous. He knows of me, no way he doesn't. His build suggests that he's a top-heavy fighter. The legs appear stable enough. That look on his face—either he knows about the arrangement, or he knows enough to be somewhat uncomfortable with the situation. But no one truly gets comfortable with feeling cold stone under their bare feet every day.
Familiar faces invade our vision. Calls to "Finish the fight this time!" and "Don't stop till their twitching stops!" make it all the more encouraging to be a good boy when I finally get out. But not that encouraging, this place will be a graveyard when I'm done here. Currently, my head is ringing with their shouts for blood and the clinking of coin on the floor. Ahead of us lies the arena. Coin covers the area, and inmates and enforcers throw their biddings towards the center. Maneuvering around that is going to be a nightmare, and with bare feet no less. Our approach is too quick, even though in reality, it was dreadfully steady. The inmates cover our bodies in black ink, like war paint. Our feet touched the first few bits of coin. Metallic greed fills the air, providing an unnatural nausea that I had to shake off. The Chilean beside me glances at my sudden movement. His batlike lips curl upwards in suspicion.
Ahead of us, the familiar ominous slams of the iron staff silence the crowd. The inmates and enforcers parted for the warden, his cheeky smile spreading when his eyes settled on us.
The iron slams stopped a few feet before us. His wide and towering figure completely dwarfing us even at this distance.
"Give them a final examination," he demands with a grin. The same two medical duo ran out from the crowd to look us over frantically. "What we have here..." he begins to announce as he circles us, staff in hand. "...is an opportunity of comradery..." What bullshit. "...These two young passionate men have stepped up to entertain us..." He turns towards us, slamming his staff on a batch of coins, bending some in the process. "...at the cost of their own health." A wicked smile stretched his descending doughy face. The warden slams the staff in my direction. "Owen, the leader of the nation of Zaun versus..." He tilts the staff towards the Chilean. "Scar, the lurker and champion of addicts." Scar couldn't help but scowl at the insulting introduction.
The medical duo completed their examination and cleared us for combat. They scurried off, like rats running from the light.
"I expect a dirty and brutal fight, gentlemen." He smiles slyly between us. "I'm sure you can draw inspiration from our occasional...chats." He watched us adjust to the pressure, the dominance of his fear tactics, and his command over the prison. Not a word was spoken over him, not even a cheer or a clap interrupted him. The Enforcers remain guarded, surrounding the arena in a tight and orderly formation.
The warden slams the iron staff on the floor. "Face your opponent." We did as he demanded. They stare each other down, Scar clenching his fists and his jaw, steeling himself for combat. But luckily for him, he's guaranteed to win. "Fight."
Scar started with a headbutt, thankfully, I expected him to make the first move. Slipping back, I began to shift, circling him. Shifting on the coins made me slip, and Scar, diligently tracking my movements, took full advantage of it. The crowd cheers and screams as he falls upon me and makes every effort to finish me right there. Scar lacked technique and made up for it with his overwhelming power. He connected with a few good shots before I was able to kick him off and roll to the side. Rolling to my feet, I put as much distance between us as possible. I can't grapple with this guy, he's deceptively strong and tough. Scar approached me, cutting me off, and he threw a few decent jabs. His next jab left him open for a single-leg takedown, but he prepared himself, positioning his legs in a sprinter's stance, stopping me from taking him down. Thankfully, the coins on the floor make the effort in pushing him back easier. I sweep his lead leg, causing him to fall down. Pushing him to the side, I began kicking his face and ribs, prepared to make this appear as if I'm actually trying. But as I land every kick on his forearm, I'm getting the feeling that I might not have had to be bribed to take a fall. My foot was caught in my next kick, and he tried to twist it. Panicked, I land a brutal kick to his head, stunning him. While he was dazed, I followed my instincts and fell on him, throwing my fists and elbows against his head and chest. This guy must have spent his early years fighting in the dark, because he was a natural at taking beatings and shrugging them off. He almost reminds me of Minimo. Just as I began reminiscing about that old rivalry, Scar grabbed my arm and headbutted my forehead. In a daze I tried to lean to the side, but he pulled me into his headbutt two more times. The inmates and enforcers groaned and cheered as Scar landed a punch to the side of my head, flinging me into the bulk of coin in the center. Since this is a fight for my life, I push myself to my feet, determined to not die here. Scar has the same idea, plus a lot more anger. He showed me a few of his tricks as well. They were so good, my forearms felt like battered meat as I tried to keep up with his creative assaults. I kick my leg out, digging my heel into his sternum. Scar grunts, then slaps my leg away. Using the momentum, I rolled away and caught a spinning kick to the top of my head. A crushing grip lifts me up from the floor, which met the side of my mouth like a punch as I fell from that kick. He easily lifts me to my feet. For a moment, I thought he was going to bite me. Those teeth glistened, even with the lights far above. The bellowing from the crowd gets louder as Scar smashes my ribs, sides, and face as he constantly yanks me back and forth, controlling when he lands his strikes. My vision begins to flood with sweat and blood, as my guard fails to defend my face from destruction. I lift my legs to kick his face, Scar catches my attack and throws me across the arena. The room rolls, and coins stick to my body as sweat, blood, and ink carry them along for the ride. I conveniently stop with the grace of the boot of the Warden.
His unnaturally wide mouth grins at the sight of me. "Time. To your corners."
Which was a dumb thing to say, a circle doesn't have corners, but I'm too exhausted and disoriented to express my smartass. An inmate I don't remember grabs my arms and drops me on a stool.
"Good job, boy!" A scraggly man with an artificial face coached me with a mouth full of wooden teeth, deranged eyes, and ears that were eaten in half. "Opmaga will flip when she gets her earnings!" Beyond us, I see Scar on the stool, a far cry from the fierce warrior that dominated me earlier. He looks broken, hardly responding to the people trying to pump him up to finish the fight. The roaring crowd threw more coins into the arena, nearly filling it, to almost flow over out feet. The Enforcers step into the arena and spread apart the coins. The inmate behind me pats my shoulders and massages my arms. The inmate in front of me lightly slaps my already battered cheeks. "Pay attention, boy!" His frantic eyes struggle to maintain contact. "Stick to the plan, take the fall, and for Janna's sake, make it look good!" he nods as if to coax my acceptance.
A steady stream of blood begins to trickle from my right nostril. "What do you get out of it?" I asked as blood dripped down to my chest, some of it grazing against my lips.
He smiles as he wipes away his saliva. "I get an extra serving of gruel." I raised a brow. "With a real slice of steak with basil seasoning."
As nice as that sounds, I can't believe I might be beaten to death on a nearly empty stomach.
The warden slams the iron staff on the floor four times. "Fighters, to the center."
The two inmates stood me up and pushed me ahead. Silence reigns as Scar and I stumble forward towards the center. Scar seems in better condition than me, clearly. We stand an arm's length apart, his resigned, stern visage remains stoic.
"I don't want this..." he grumbled as he stared me down, with eyes sunken in his skull.
It hurt to return his stoic face with a smirk. "We get what we get."
The warden slams the iron rod again. "Fight."
Scar, with half the energy that he started with, charged after me. The coins on the floor threaten to take his ankles for a spin. It was a faint hope that it would make my job a bit easier. Make my decision to screw Opmaga over by winning on purpose. I must be the favorite, but against this guy? People have too much faith in me. But as Scar closes the distance, he reaches his lead arm out to measure the distance for a massive punch. Then I wonder, isn't that the point? For my Zaunites to have faith in me? The straight cross is coming, I can sense it, all the signs are there. To betray myself, I would have to hand over what little pride I have left. My legs gave out, I turned my upper body and pulled my legs with the momentum. It was a wish and a prayer to pull off something that I haven't practiced yet. The move partially worked, I definitely startled him, throwing the side of my ankle into his face, causing him to stumble backwards. I scramble to my feet, expending more energy than I should. That was a huge mistake, not only did I cause myself to be dizzy, but I'm just as tired as before the break. Still, there is a fight to almost win but lose anyways. With legs of lead, I stumble forward with my head lowered, fists shielding my jaw. Scar recovered and backed up to make space. If I have to lose, I have to be on death's door. It has to be dramatic, just to test the waters, just to see how far someone like me can go. I lunged forward with a wild right hook, which Scar intelligently slipped. He bent his knees and twisted his body into a straight counter. Lowering my elbows, I brace for impact, but that was a feint. He redirected his punch, tilting his fist slightly upward and the angle of his forearm. My jaw caved in and damn near split in half as I fell backwards. Splitting pain shot through my head as the back of my skull greeted the pile of coins. Funny, I can't feel much of anything anymore, with too much of everything else pulsing through me. As Scar stands over me, I try to think of what this feeling is. I've never felt anything like this before. The roars of the crowd were at an all-time peak. Scar looks around, judging whether or not to execute me. Whatever the crowd was saying, I couldn't understand, I was too busy trying to get up. Scar looked down at me again, hesitation clouding his face, as if he's displeased with the decision of our devoted fans. With rage at the situation fueling him, he lifted his foot and brought it down on my torso, causing me to double over and roll to the side. Tasting the metallic tang of blood on the back of your throat is NOT something you'd want to experience. Almost as if it's an ominous sign. I turn over on my elbows and knees, and then I feel his foot crash into my gut, lifting me off the ground. The inmates let out a combined exclamation of secondhand agony as they witnessed my body being folded by Scar. When I land on the bed of coins again, it is not until he mounts me that I realize that I actually landed. That's when the slams to my face, chest, body, and everywhere else kind of made it known who won. My body rolls across the arena, like a wet doll filled with blood. Looking up aimlessly towards an Enforcer, of course, there's no semblance of humanity from that damn helmet. Scar stepped up to the Enforcer. They locked eyes, making it known that there's no chance for understanding, besides the existing animosity between Zaunites and Enforcers. He took my arm and dragged me back to the center.
"Surrender," he says for the first time, his voice coming out as a gruff hiss.
With a slipping conscious and a few more smart-ass comments left in the tank, I blew a blood bubble and popped it in his face. "Keep it up...and you'll...get steak and gruel...."
Scar snarls in disbelief and drops me like dead weight. "I WON!" He looks around at the crowd and receives mixed reactions of approval and disappointment for our performance. Frustrated, he stomped his foot on my chest again and pounded his chest. "ISN'T THIS ENOUGH!"
The warden silenced the crowd by slamming his iron staff as he approached us. The coins clink with every impact of the iron staff. When he finally reached us, he loomed over our meager forms in comparison. "More."
Scar's eyes widen. He knows he cannot defy the Warden, or else he'll be the one broken and covered in lacerations. He mounts me again and proceeds to beat my face from side to side. The room is filled with a mixture of sadistic wails of encouragement, but after a while, even that was silence. Nothing but the sounds of knuckles colliding with skull echoes off the stone surfaces.
"More," the warden grumbles. "Make sure to get his good side."
Scar's jaw clenched in self-hatred as he continued to vent his frustration and helplessness against me. He now stands over me, fists coated in deep crimson blood, eyes batting back tears. Scar observes his handy work: a broken, battered, and bruised revolutionary. Lacerations, swollen eyes, split lips, a broken jaw, and shattered orbital bones. A true work of art, if you're into that sort of thing.
The warden shrugs. "Is that all you got?"
Scar looks up at him with hatred spewing from his soul. "Tired."
The warden chuckled. "Could have told me, I would have waived it earlier."