"The Pit" was not just your everyday fight club. It was much similar to a circus of despair, where acts of depravity were encouraged as though they were honourable deeds and the true honourable deeds were jeered at and looked at with disdain. The place where this pit of despair could be found was a club hidden deep within the labyrinth-like buildings of the Shatterzone, a place no better than the pit, where survival was an everyday chore, and this who could survive knew what exactly what the future had in-store for them.
The Pit though, always roared as if it had life whenever there was a fight, echoes could be heard from all over, almost as if it had a pulse of its own, beating with the misery and rage of those abandoned and hopeless, all while the spectators relish in the agony and despair of those desperate enough to battle within it's confines. Neon signs stuttered and buzzed, like they were caught in an argument with the darkness. Cracks and peeling paint clawed at the walls, as if the place itself wanted out. The crowd, jam-packed and rowdy, looked like they'd been scraped off the bottom of society's shoe. Leather jackets, torn shirts, and faces you wouldn't trust to watch your dog even from miles away, they were all there, shouting over one another in a chaotic cocktail of insults and bets with spittle flying everywhere.
Standing dead center, like some tragic gladiator, was Jarek Vayne. His hands were bloody, like he'd been punching a concrete wall for hours, and his breath came in short, sharp gasps. The sweat on his body was enough to fill a small bucket to the brim, and his green eyes glimmered with a mix of exhaustion, determination and desperation. It was almost poetic, if you liked your poetry written in blood and desperation. On the other side of the stage across from him, circling him like a shark with prey in it's sights. His body was modified to the extreme much tech it was so much that you'd think he was a robot. And the fact that his eyes were as soulless as a dead fish did not help his case. He was Jarek's opponent: a towering brute with cybernetic modifications that whirred and clicked with every movement. The guy looked more machine than man, though maybe that's just how it felt under the Pit's flickering lights.
"Are you done prancing, or you wanna make this a dance-off?" the brute tried to ridicule Jarek, his voice almost robotic evidence of his many augmentations.
Jarek raised a brow, the corner of his mouth tugging into a smirk that was full of disdain and ridicule. "Depends," he shot back, his words mocking . "You planning to keep missing, or are you just flexing your modifications out here?" It was evident Jarek was trying to rile up his opponent.
The crowd ate it up, their cheers blending with laughter that carried an edge of menace. When the brute lunged, Jarek moved—not fast, not frantic, but with a sort of lazy precision, like he'd done this a thousand times before. His counter was quick—a sharp uppercut that sent the big guy staggering, though not quite toppling. The hiss of the brute's recalibrating limbs was a reminder that this fight wasn't over, not by a long shot.
By now, Jarek's muscles were screaming at him to call it a night, but that wasn't in the cards. Not with Lira at home, waiting. Her pale, drawn face flashed through his mind like a ghostly reminder of why he couldn't lose—not tonight, not ever.
The brute charged again, faster this time, and Jarek barely dodged. Metal claws sliced through his jacket and bit into his ribs, leaving a sting that shot straight to his brain. He grimaced but didn't hesitate, twisting his body and driving his elbow into the brute's temple with a force that seemed to come from nowhere. Sparks flew as the giant crumpled to the floor, his mechanical limbs twitching like broken toys.
The Pit exploded into chaos. Fists full of crumpled bills swapped hands, and shouts of rage clashed with cheers of triumph. Jarek stood there, swaying like a tree in a storm, his fist raised more out of muscle memory than any real sense of victory. The announcer's voice boomed over the noise, calling his name as if he was some kind of hero. "JAREK VAYNE! The King of the Pit!"
The words hit him wrong, like a joke other would laugh at but you didn't find funny. King? Here? If the Pit was a kingdom, it was one built on rot and ruin, and its crown was a burden he'd gladly chuck into the nearest gutter. Shoving his way through the sweaty throng, he ignored the mix of slaps on the back and muttered curses. The smell of unwashed bodies clung to him like a second skin, it was enough to make him want to throw up, and he had no patience for any of it.
Backstage, the Pit's manager, a wiry, rat-faced man whose eyes gleamed like coins in a slot machine—was waiting with a payout so pitiful it was almost insulting. "Nice fight," the guy jeered, sliding an amount of credits that was clearly not worth the hassle into Jarek's hand. "But don't get cocky boy. There will one be someone bigger, badder, and ready to take you down." he mocked.
Jarek didn't bother replying. He knew the risks involved when he decided to do this. One slip, one wrong move, and this fragile house of cards he'd built up painstakingly would collapse to the ground, taking him and Lira down with it. That thought was always tugging at his conscience.
Outside, the acidic rain of Erethis fell on his skin, it sent sharp and stinging pain through his wounds like it had a grudge. The Shatterzone stretched out before him, a patchwork of broken glass, flickering neon lights, and puddles that shimmered with oil. He pulled his hood up, disappearing into the maze of shadows.
There was no celebration and no relief. Winning was not something he could celebrate when the fight was nowhere near the end.