Bang Bang
what can I say except
A RP by Indigo and Bang Bang
Moira was still spitting out blood from last night's round. Her knuckles were still tender to the touch; They didn't allow weapons in the ring, save those melded to your body, so she'd had to set aside gun and blade in favor of her clumsy, all too human fists. Not like they hadn't done the job though. She'd seen her opponent after, receiving resus after resus. It was his tenth fight, one away from getting out of here.
He hadn't made it.
Whatever. Moira might only be on her third go at this place, might still have five more to go at best, but no fucking way was she ending up like that. Dying in here? She couldn't imagine a less appealing death. Even down there in the locker room, where she sat bandaging her sticky, bloodied knuckles, she could hear the din of the bar above. All sorts of trash gravitated here, as varying in size and colour as tropical birds of long lost rain-forests, though they all have one thing in common: too much blood on their hands. And now it seemed they had a taste for it. So here they came, paying to see more.
Tonguing the tooth coming loose on her lower jaw, knocked to wobbling last night, Moira squinted up at Pig, the man who owned her and her debt. He was the opposite of what his name implied in physical form, a puny, scrappy little slip of a man with a rat like face, but greedy enough eyes for his name. He paced before her now, trying to rile her up as if he were some kind of coach, not a prison master. She didn't want to listen to him, but she had to; she'd take whatever she could get here to survive. So she listened to his rabble, tried to let the knock off speech rouse some confidence in her stomach.
The pit was as close to a hellhole as was imaginable. Locked in all all sides by thick chicken-wire, topped by a bannister over which leered the Trap's patrons, the pit would be more akin to a cage, were it not for how far down it sunk. On the walls, high above where any contestant could do damage, enormous, glitching screens magnified and replicated her face. A dozens Morias glanced about, scowled, spat blood onto the asphalt. The crowd whooped and jeered and howled. She'd made something of a name for herself last night; beating a man's skull in had the habit of doing that. She didn't remember it though.
Why couldn't she remember it? She'd handed over a dozen people to fates she knew were worse than death, but that was the first real life she'd taken. And she couldn't even remember what the poor bastard looked like.
She really did feel like she was going to be sick.
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