In It For The Fight

A Story by Tesa

Devon Marcon is an underground fighter, trying to earn some extra wages to support his younger siblings. All goes well until a man named Hector Vietta takes an interest in his fighting skills.

You’re sweating too much to feel the chill in the room, though the hairs on your forearms are erect. It’s mostly because you’re nervous. The lamp above you glows dimly, occasionally flickering, and makes the walls look like they’re covered in grime. To the right of you, there’s a stain on the floor that looks awfully like blood, but you’re not sure. It’s unsettling to you for some reason; it reminds you why you’re here. For a few moments you’re sitting on the metallic examination table, gripping its edges to calm yourself. Your knuckles have turned white from how tightly you cling to the edge.

The walls of the room are thick, but that doesn’t stop the rhythm of the crowd’s cheering from reverberating around you, almost getting louder and louder, yet not as loud of the beating of your heart in your ears. It takes you a few deep breaths to relax yourself, though the ache in between your shoulders is ever-present.

The only door in the room opens and your eyes snap up to see one of the stadium staff has entered. He’s wearing a dark blue polo and black slacks. The name tag pinned to his chest reads Martin, which is weird because you can’t recall seeing him working around.

“The ring is ready for you, “he says, pressing his hand against the mic in his ear listening for his next task. He doesn’t offer you a second glance before running off to perform his other duties. The door slams and the sound echoes slightly throughout the empty room. The light above you buzzes, like a fly soaring towards the deadly porch lamp, as you hear the announcer enter the ring. It’s time for the start �" the one in many. With one final breath, you’re up and leaving the stone room behind.

The pathway of the hall you’re walking down is all too familiar, one you’ve seen at least once a month these past two years, and your footsteps echo as you pass. The people rushing by avoid stepping in front of you, pressing themselves against the walls as they skim by. It makes you feel intimidating and alone. Gradually, the cheering becomes louder, matching the rhythm of your heart. One more corner and the arena is in your view. No one notices you yet because the doorway you’re standing in is too dark. The ring you’re supposed to be in is bright, as though God himself was shining does on it.

This is your place, Devon, you imagine Him saying, and these are your people. The announcer clad in a tuxedo introduces you by your name and rank. Even from a distance, his smile is radiant and

fake. A spotlight appears in front of you - it’s your cue to emerge between the stands; and when you do, the crowd becomes ecstatic with excitement and ferocity. Surprisingly, you hate it �" the sound of their calls is near unbearable and you just want the night to be over.

But you play along, strutting down the aisle almost like it’s a runway and you’re the show. Gripping the rough rope of the ring, you hoist yourself over and give a casual nod to Jack, the referee. He looks at you with a blank expression - the makeup they had applied to his aged face has smeared been with his sweat - yet his eyes pity you and for whatever reason, you appreciate it. You know you deserve a better occupation.

Throughout the dark mass of people, the various flashing lights damn near blind you. They’re not supposed to have cameras at these events, but some people are willing to pay extra just to make a profit off a few pictures of you in your element �" as though you are a caged tiger. It infuriates you, but motivates you to get this fight over with quickly.

A man approaches the ring. He is dark skinned, taller than you, and almost completely composed of muscle. For a minute, you’re scared. This guy is huge; his muscles bulge out of his white T-shirt so much that you’re sure it’s bound to rip if he flexed once. The announcer presents your opponent and his rank. He’s three ranks below yours �" having killed twelve men fewer than you. You use that fact to remember why it is you’re here and who you’re fighting for.

The feeling of empowerment returns and this time you let it numb you. Your opponent’s name means nothing to you and you mean nothing to him. As Jack relays the same rules he has the last eight months, you strategize just how you’re going to fight tonight. Everything is blocked out; there are no flashing lights, no cheering crowd, and not even Jack is within sight. Your mind is clear and you focus on what’s in front of you. It’s you and the enemy �" the guy standing between you and your sisters’ meals for the next month, the roof over your head, and your existences. Flexing your fingers, your only intention is tearing this wall of meat to shreds, even if it kills you.