Story #241 - Fighter

Fighter

Terry Talbot hated fighting. The trouble was, it was one of the things he was really good at.

That wasn’t the only trouble, but it was the one that was the most immediate – the one that was going to get the man across from him killed, and soon.

“Please,” Terry said quietly, ducking under the shorter man’s wide right hook and then shooting his arm out to take him by the throat. “Stop this.”

In response, his opponent snarled at him through clenched teeth and began to throw wild punches at Terry’s midsection, hoping to get a lucky shot and drop him to his knees. It was no good; no one had bested Terry in the dozen years he’d been fighting, and the man in his grip wasn’t going to be the first no matter how hard he swung or how desperate he sounded.

Terry glanced to the edge of the ring. Farlo, his owner, was glaring down at him with the mix of greed and disgust he had come to know as the man’s usual expression. Five years ago, he’d “found” Terry wandering alone on the streets of the city, and after a failed kidnapping attempt had come back with fifteen large men. Even he couldn’t stand against so many, and found himself forced into the one position he seemed built for but never wanted – as a fighter for entertainment, for sport.

He closed his eyes as he tightened his grip, trying to ignore the feeling of bones being crushed and the sound of life being snuffed out. Now matter how long they forced him to fight, he’d never get used to it, never be able to shrug off pain so casually as those looking down from the stands. It was different on the ground, different when the life taken was taken because of direct action, instead of simply being ordered.

Terry let the limp body slip from his grasp and stepped away, ignoring the cheers of the crowd. Tears welled up in his eyes but he fought them down – he could cry for his opponent on the inside, but Farlo didn’t deserve to see even a shred of human dignity, human emotion.

“What the hell was that?” His garishly-dressed owner screamed as he approached. Terry could see the remote in Farlo’s hands, but didn’t cower, didn’t flinch – pain was something to be endured, and anything the man did to him now would be a pittance, a tiny addition to the suffering he’d already piled on himself.

“What?” Terry kept his voice calm. Yelling at Farlo did no good, and just brought more pain. He could endure it, but saw no reason to do so without cause.

“What do you think, Brute?” His owner had called him that since their first encounter on the street, and Terry had never cared enough to correct or dispute it. “You spoke to him, and I heard it – you do not encourage another fighter to stop the match. You’ve been warned about this, and I assumed it had penetrated even your thick head by now.”

He didn’t bother to answer, but instead stood his ground and waited for Farlo to decide what his punishment would look like today. He’d long ago given up the hope of getting away, of escaping into the night and never being found. The Circuit had men everywhere watching out for those who managed to desert, or who might be a good “fit” for the organization. Despite the nature of the fights, most municipal agencies allowed them to continue thanks to the generous kickbacks the Circuit was willing to give out so long as law enforcement looked the other way.

A long moment passed and Farlo finally turned away, but not before sending a jolt of electricity through Terry’s neck.

“Get to the trainer, then rest up,” his owner said as he stalked away. “You’ve got a two on one tomorrow night.”

Terry paid no attention to his surroundings as he made his way to the recovery room. Fighters that lived were often brutalized during matches, and the Circuit was wise enough to invest in the best trainers who couldn’t make it on the legitimate side of the business.

“Brute,” Sally Sherman said as he came through the door, “sit.”

He obeyed; Sally wouldn’t shock him, but that didn’t mean he could ignore her requests. In five years, she’d been the only source of kindness he’d found in a brutal world, but she had a job to do, and wouldn’t stick her neck out for anyone. He liked her, as much as he could a pawn of the Circuit’s interests, and she was very, very good at her job.

She checked him over quickly, then smiled. “You don’t take damage easily, do you?”

“No,” he said simply.

“It’s no wonder you’ve stayed alive so long,” she said, trying to work her small hands into the tense muscles on his back, “you’re like a rock.”

He tried not to flinch under her touch – physical contact was hard for him to see as non-threatening.

“Hang on,” Sally said, and he felt her hands go to the collar at his neck, “this doesn’t seem to be sitting properly.” There was the sensation of movement from circle that marked him as owned, and then a spike of pain slammed into his brain, driving him forward. Only a hastily shot out arm saved him from a face full of concrete.

“Nrrrgggh!” Was the only sound he could manage as the feeling spread through his body, then began to slowly recede.

“Get up!” Sally shouted, “Brute! Get out! How dare you touch me?”

“What?” He managed, coming to his feet. “Sally, what are you talking about?”

“GET OUT!” She screamed, her voice rising an octave. Oddly, there was a smile on her face.

Terry was moving before he had time to think it all through. He needed to get away from her, get to his quarters and deal with whatever punishment Farlo was going to dole out. Whatever Sally’s reason for turning on him, he had no time to dwell on it.

The clang of metal hitting stone sounded loudly as he ran, and he turned to see his collar lying on the floor, its clasp broken. He scooped it up in large hands and kept moving – Farlo would get a surprise when he came to deliver his fury.

- D