It’s not uncommon in this profession to drift off to sleep with bruises and untended wounds. At the end of the day I’m lucky to fall onto the pile of blankets I call a bed instead of passing out on the cracked concrete. The exhaustion tonight is no different. I need to get home. I think I dislocated a few ribs again. Arms I can pop back in, ribs I need Jinsie or Medda’s help with. The twinge in my back confirms somthing being out of place. Lifting the back of my shirt up I check in the neon light reflecting off shop windows. Red marks, bruising outlining my ribs. At least it was ribs this time.

Last time I got my ass handed to me so very thoroughly the fucker went for my legs. I can wrap ribs but my mobility was the best edge I had in the arena. Speed to evade. I didn’t have much in terms of power, guts, training, or instinct. If they got a hold of me it was over. The satyr I’d gone up against today had a bad combo of a grapple whip and some damn strong kicks. As soon as that whip coiled around my wrist and those hooves connected under my arm I knew I was done for. Pop goes my socket, usless arm, crack go my ribs, maybe broken, definitely out of place. Best I could do was use my functioning arm to protect my head as goatman tap danced all over my back.

Damn, was hopeful when I’d drawn this fight hearing it wasn’t one of the more powerful species. Bad luck to get an experienced fighter who knew their strengths. Most of the creatures who throw in at the Eldridge Arena are either cocky twenty something’s from the surface that just need knocked down a peg or two or skinny starving teens that have no other option. Even if you get your shit rocked the payout is good, but there’s no guarantee you’ll walk out.

I’m considered a senior fighter at the ripe old age of 26 because I’ve been bouncing off those walls since I was 13. Half my life taking and giving beatings. Let’s be honest, taking more than giving, especially as of recent. Jinsie tells me I didn’t drink enough milk as a kid cause my bones tend to snap a little too easy. Maybe it’s the combination of years of wounds and improperly healed fractures but I’ve got some serious hitching going on in my shoulders. It’s not a good look and it’s inconvenient to say the least for your shoulders to lock up when you’re trying to throw a punch. It’s also driving down my odds at the betting rings meaning my take is getting smaller.

Pulling my shirt a little higher I catch a glimpse of prominent protrusions sitting just under my shoulder blades. Shit. Definitely dislocated something. It doesn’t hurt like it’s broken but there’s some serious bruising going on where my skins being stretched unaturally.

“Fwoosh”

“Fuck!”

I just about jump out of my skin as the dryad slides up against the glass of the window I’d been using to check my back. The green mist that she’d materialized out of settles to the floor of the display window to add to the ambiance. Quickly pulling my shirt back down I scramble to politely express I wasn’t interested, red creeping my my neck to my ears, not from fighting this time. The red and pink neon lights that illuminate most of the windows in the underground highlight the curves of the nymphs body. Vines move around her seductively, climbing up circling her neck to stroke her cheek, then back down to her shoulders. I stopped following them after that, intentionally avoiding eye contact. She’s still pressed up against the window fluttering her eyelashes and beckoning me with perfectly manicured nails. She’s covered in floral and vine tattoos that come to life with her power.

I gotta get out of here. Preforming an awkward half bow with a weird three finger wave, I make a swift exit down the alley. She follows as far as the window allows, shooting me a wink when I chance a look back. I can feel the heat in my cheeks as I pull up my hood and stuff my hands as deep into the pockets of my jacket as I can. You’d think after 13 years of walking these streets and seeing all kinds of degeneracy I’d be used to it, less affected.

“Damn Demo, you’re like a freaking 16 year old boy. Getting flustered just cause a pretty lady winked at you. Get it together man.” I mutter to myself. She’ll be snickering about that and telling all the others about it later.

I’m well enough known in the underground. I got the hardest parts of growing up beat into me down here. I’m know as one of the Arenas regular fighters, recognizable in the ring for having a slimmer frame. Most long term fighters have a fair amount of muscling, bulky, able to throw a lot of power around. I’d like to think I’m still well muscled, enough not to blush when my shirt gets ripped off in the fights, but I’m not built like a brick house like most of the guys. I’m well acquainted with the public of the underground. It’s a lot smaller than you’d think. Most of the people clambering around the arena are from the surface, coming down to get their kicks.

The earth cracked apart 500 years ago. Some creatures came up from the depths and some descended from the surface. The underworlds warmer, but its dark, the sun only showing its face a few days out of the year, only a few hours at that. Because we can, the species made the surface and underworld about social standing and financial hierarchy. I heard that some of the powerful creatures made an even higher area and are calling it skyhaven, reserved for the best.

I couldn’t give a shit, I was born to a middle class family of wendigo on the edge of the surface. When I didn’t grow any semblance of claws or antlers after 12, my parents threw me out. There was talk about my mother having an affair with a human, maybe I was just deformed, all kinds of lovely theories they decided they didn’t want to deal with. So I quite literally got thrown out. Booted down one of the mining shafts and ended up taking a two hour ride in a bucket filled with dirt and old oil till I reached the bottom of the underworld. Missed low class and dropped to the very bottom rung of the social ladder. For about 6 months I tried begging, finding someone to look out for me, got scammed out of the shoes I’d had, looked for some kind of work. Skinny and broken I’d fallen asleep after crawling into a dark doorway.

The next thing I knew I was falling backward and taking out the legs of an older Minotaur as I went. That was how I met Jinsie. She beat my ass for that, gave me the first taste of real food for the first time in 6 months though. She was straight forward with me. She’d teach me how to survive down here, but it would cost me, and it would hurt.

Yadda yadda, training montage, lots of bruises and very little sleep. Fast forward to my 13th birthday I got my first fight. It was a first blood fight. Popular for younger fighters since they didn’t go so far. Even those who get rich off the arenas have a little shard of conscience about kids trying to kill eachother and settled on that style of fight to sleep better at night.

My opponent was a half breed, probably human and gorgon. She had the snakes, just none of the power that came with it. The creatures that were supposed to be alive, writhing and protecting her, were limp, hanging lifeless. That’s what happens when human blood comes into the mix. It rots. Pureblood humans are held in high regard. They’re responsible for pretty much every technological advancement and invention. Half breeds though, they seem to get the short end of the stick, the worst of both worlds. When I’d seen the pitiful state she was in I’d actually felt a glimmer of hope. This wasn’t going to be hard. She didn’t have any advantage I could think of. I was fast, there were rocks in the arena. All I needed was one good hit and she’d bleed. Paycheck.

As Jinsie pushed me into the arnea I feigned stumbling. Dropping to the ground I used it as a way to disguise the movement of grabbing a rock. She rushed forwards, hoping to take advantage of the opening. The rock I’d managed to grab had a sharp edge, lucky for me. About two paces before she reached me, I whipped my head up and pushed off the ground, just looking to scratch her, somthing minor.

Jinsie had talked to me about it. At the end of the day if you can avoid seriously injuring, do. I built up a reputation, fighters who were just looking to survive respected it. The only ones I need to watch out for were the sadist, the ones that took pleasure in this shit. Grinning with the grinding of bones and laughing in the wails in their prey.

I had her, or so I thought till she swung her head around. The first lesson I learned, be more observant. The snakes I’d seen as a mark of just how bad off she was, all of their lower jaws had been ripped off, fangs exposed. Like a cat-o-nine-tails with nails. Razor sharp fangs sunk in and ripped out of the right side of my face. My eye was spared do to some divine providence. That was it. Fight over, blood running down my face. I bawled my eyes out. Hell of a 13th birthday. Jinsie carried me out. She made sure to clean the wounds well, talking about poison. The little girl came and found us later when we were walking home. Tears welled up in her eyes.

“Wait!”

“What do you want”, Jinsie was calm, but put herself decidedly between the two of us.

“I…I just wanted to let you know there’s no poison, my snakes ran out a long time ago. And…I…hic…I’m so-sor-sorry…sniff.” Tears started rolling down her cheeks.

“Where’d that brat run off to?” The girls eyes widened and she quickly wiped away the tears to look up at a fat man stuffing a thick envelope in his pocket. His bowler hat was too small for his head and his long coat couldn’t zip. “Get back here!” He grabbed the girl by her snakes and walked off, forcing her to walk with her head at a painful angle.

This feeling of unjustness welled up. But looking up at Jinsie, I understood, life’s not fucking fair, I could have had it so much worse down here. She was using me, sure, but she was still treating me like a person, not some dog to throw into the ring. The money I earned went to Jinsie and in return she made sure I was fed, had a spot to sleep, and didn’t get picked up by the rats or barons of the underworld.

I learned that the fat man with the little hat was the 9th baron, low ranking, but still a big deal. He’d run with a group of the rats, building his gang till he was officially recognized as a baron by killing one of them. He started running fighters, mostly the first blood fights. He’d go through fighters like I’m sure he went through potato chips. Quick and dirty. None of them lasted long.