Victor of Tucson

Victor didn’t remember a lot between climbing out of the ring and slumping down against the wall in the roped-off area. There were only a handful of fighters standing around or laying on the wooden floor, everyone else presumably dead, injured, or off fighting in a pit. He remembered Ponda’s big meaty hand on the back of his neck, guiding him along the walkways above the pits, then his gruff, “You got maybe an hour ‘til your last fight.” Then Victor had stumbled, still soaked in sticky blood, to the wall and collapsed.

His mind was blissfully blank; he’d started with some self-loathing about killing that girl, but it didn’t stick. He hardly remembered doing it for one thing, and for the other, he very clearly remembered her mocking, nasty tone as she tried to bleed him to death with whatever magic she’d been using. No, even when he looked at his brown-red stained blue jeans, he couldn’t get too disgusted. His mind was just too tired. Had he been using Berserk too much? Did it have some sort of effect on his mental state? What if it didn’t work in the next fight? He couldn’t find the energy to give a shit. He just sat there, eyes closed, staring into the black void behind his eyelids.

“You look wrung out, Victor.” Sarl had come to stand near him, leaning against the wall while he sipped a cup of water.

“I am, bro. Hey, you won your fight?” Sarl didn’t look bad - his usual wan self, with maybe a new bruise or two.

“Aye, I did. Thank Nature.”

“Nature? Do Ghelli worship nature?”

“Hmm, I don’t think worship is the right word. Maybe revere would be more fitting. We recognize nature’s power and potential, and we pay respect to it. What troubles you, though, Victor? You’ve won three fights now, correct?”

“Yeah, man, but I don’t feel great about it. I have an ability that sends me into kind of an enraged frenzy for a while, and, fuck; there’s no getting around the fact that I’ve fucking slaughtered quite a few people now. What am I becoming? Jesus, can I ever go back home? How many freshmen at community college have killed a bunch of people? I guess it happens, but my old life just seems so distant and small now. I feel like I’m losing myself. Does that make sense?” Victor was pissed at himself for spilling his guts to Sarl. Hadn’t he just resolved not to get closer to anybody? Here he was asking this guy for advice like he was some kind of counselor or something.

“It makes sense, Victor, more than you know. I walked that road long before I was put into these pit fights. I took a leap for vengeance that forever separated me from my old life. I chose that road, but you didn’t - you’re just trying to survive. You can’t blame yourself for that.”

“I mean just that. I stepped out of my comfortable life of submission and purposefully crossed a line. I killed people outside the law to make them pay for what they’d done to my loved ones. There was no going back from that. Even when I was done and I submitted, my old life was dead. Now I live for the unknown. Will I live through enough fights to be free again? What will I make of myself then? I stopped caring the moment my wife died, though. I suppose that’s rather liberating.”

“Heavy shit, bro.” Victor had a hard time feeling sorry for himself when he heard Sarl’s story, as vague as it was. He looked around at the eight or so fighters hanging around behind the ropes and studied their faces. Everyone was fighting demons, he supposed. He wasn’t the only one suffering this shitty existence. Sure, he’d been kidnapped, but judging from what he’d seen of this world’s legal system, he doubted he was the only one unjustly thrown to the pits.

“Here comes Boss,” Sarl said, nodding to the big Shadeni purposefully stomping toward their section.

“Kid, your fight’s coming up. Come on.” He waved for Victor and held up the rope so he could easily duck under it. “Lady’s tits, boy - you’re completely soaked in blood. You win this one, and I’ll throw a trip to the baths into the pot.” Victor didn’t reply, just followed in Yund’s wake as he pushed through the crowds toward the central pits again.

“Damn, why are all my fights in the center tonight?”

“Because I secured some interesting fights for you. You’re welcome! This next one is a bit out of your league, but he’s a straight brawler - nothing flashy as far as I can tell.”

“What do you mean out of my league?” Victor had to shout at Yund’s back to be heard over the cheering, stomping crowds they were walking through.

“Well, the last fight you won was against a tier one. I think she was level twelve. This guy is closer to tier two.”

“What the fuck, dude? I’m level eight?” As he said it, Victor remembered his five attribute points, and he hurriedly put them into vitality.

“This guy is strong and tough but not particularly fast, and his Energy ability is almost non-existent. You can do it!” Yund had slowed to turn toward Victor while he spoke, and Victor could see in his eyes that he wished he hadn’t told him anything about his opponent. Was he really hoping Victor could win, or did he build him up with those other three fights just so he could bet against him in this one?

“Yo, are you fucking me over, Boss?”

“Just get your ass in there, and beat this guy to hell. If you win, things will look up for you around here, get me?” Yund leaned down, his big black eyes squinted in a scowl, brooking no argument. Victor just nodded. As they approached pit “one” in the warehouse center, the crowd started to clap, and Victor realized that many of them were chanting his name again. Had Yund told them his name? Did they get some sort of fighter list? He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the adulation. He always liked it when he won a match, and the audience cheered, but this was on another level. These people were hyped to hell, stomping, cheering, pumping their fists. They also had a rabid, almost insane look in their eyes, but who can be picky when it comes to adoring fans, right?

He stood on his little platform, waiting for the judge’s word, while staring across the pit, trying to get a glimpse of his opponent. He saw Ponda walking around over there, or he thought he did, but then the huge Vodkin stepped onto the platform, and Victor saw the white stripe running down the center of his fur from his forehead to his chin. “Definitely not Ponda.”

“Fighters ready?” Victor didn’t get a chance to respond because Yund did it for him.

“Ready!” he hollered. The Vodkin lifted a ham-sized fist and roared.

“Begin!” the Judge shouted, and Victor jumped in before someone got the satisfaction of pushing him. The ground shook slightly as the Vodkin dropped down, with a grunt, catching himself on a fist as he fell forward. Victor glanced around, making sure he hadn’t missed any weapons, and then he backed away, wanting some distance between him and his opponent so he could try to gauge what he was dealing with in terms of speed and surprises. The big white-striped, otter-looking asshole stomped directly at Victor, his fists raised and nothing but business on his face. The guy had to weigh more than three hundred pounds, and Victor didn’t think he was strong enough to take him down; certainly, he couldn't throw him.

“Quit running, rat,” the big man growled as he stomped after Victor. Victor didn’t know what to do; he was hesitant to pull the trigger on his Berserk skill right away. What if this guy lived through the punishment he could dish out? Would Victor have any fight left in him after it wore off? He wanted to try to wear this guy down a little first, but he was out of ideas. The Vodkin charged him suddenly, his huge thighs bunching and rippling with the effort of driving such a big body forward. Victor dove to his left, rolling over his shoulder and back up onto his feet, altogether avoiding the charge.

“You have rats in this world?” Victor asked, laughing at the absurdity of that thought being at the forefront of his mind.

“Fight me! Fight Durn!” the Vodkin had nearly smashed into the wall in his charge, and when he turned and screamed this challenge, saliva fluttered out of his gaping mouth with the force of his lungs. The crowd cheered and began to chant, “Durn, Durn, Durn!” Victor was losing them, it seemed.

“Spears!” the Judge cried, and someone was quick to comply, tossing spears down, both of them landing near Durn.

“That’s bullshit!” Victor yelled. Then, as Durn stooped to scoop up a spear, he sprinted for the other one. Something in the back of his mind tickled, and, as he bent to pick up the spear, Victor dropped flat. Durn’s spear ripped through the air where he’d been standing, struck the pit wall, and smashed through one of the sturdy boards, vibrating in place for a moment. “That woulda fucked me up,” Victor hissed, rolling to his knees and diving away, spear in hand, as Durn stomped toward where he’d lain.

Victor began, then, to really test Durn. He used his spear to keep him at bay, trying little feints and jabs with it, seeing what he could get through the big man’s guard. Durn might not be the fastest guy Victor had ever met, but he was tough as hell and not exactly bad at fighting. He slapped the spear aside most of the time, but when Victor got a jab through, here and there, it only seemed to enrage the big man. Soon he was bleeding from four or five minor puncture wounds and one long gash along his forearm, but he wasn’t any slower or less aggressive. Victor, on the other hand, was starting to run out of steam, and he began to wonder if this fight was hopeless. If this guy really had ten or so levels on him, that seemed like a pretty huge attribute advantage. What if he had something like fifty vitality? Could Victor keep this dance up long enough to wear the big guy down?

Victor, always on his back foot, moving away in a constant retreating circle, tried to figure out a pattern to open Durn’s guard. He found that, if he feinted low, stepped left, then feinted high, he could almost be sure to have a clean shot at Durn’s belly. He repeated the process three times, never taking the shot, just to be sure, then Victor began to channel Energy out of his Core, into his pathways, leading to his arms. He instantly noticed the red tint to the light, his heart beating faster, and his breath roughly tickling his vocal cords into a growl as he exhaled. Then he used his feint combo to open Durn’s guard and pushed with all his will at the Energy in his pathways, driving the spear forward. It moved like a bolt of red lightning, catching Durn on the left side of his belly and exploding through his layers of fat, muscle, and organs to punch out through his back.

Durn screamed, but it wasn’t a death knell; no, he screamed in fury and disbelief, and his black eyes blazed with sudden red light. He charged forward into the spear that Victor still held, dumbstruck by the reaction, and swiped one massive fist with such terrible force that it dislocated Victor’s shoulder, lifted him from the ground, and sent him tumbling through the air to smash into the pit wall. Durn roared, raising his arms in the air, careless of the fluids gushing out around the terrible spear wound in his gut. The crowd roared back, stomping their feet and chanting Durn’s name.

Victor was stunned but not out. He’d fallen along the wall to lay slumped against it. His forehead was bleeding into his eyes again, and his arm was pure agony. He thought something else might have broken in the crash with the wall, but he couldn’t be sure. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and activated Berserk. His searing pain faded to just a feeling that was there but not important. He stood up, careless of how his left leg bowed inward, and the only thing he could see was Durn. In the center of Victor’s vision, he stood there, a red-soaked obstacle that needed to be knocked down. Something was funny with Victor’s left arm; it didn’t want to move like he intended, flopping with a strange grinding sensation in his shoulder. He didn’t care; the other arm worked fine. He stomped toward Durn, who was just refocusing on Victor after his open-mouthed roar of dominance toward the spectators. Durn growled when he saw Victor striding toward him with a terrible expression on his face. A little of the heat faded from Durn’s eyes as though he could read the intentions playing across Victor’s mind, and rather than charge forward, he took a half-step back.

Victor didn’t wait to see what Durn was doing; he reached with his right arm and grabbed the spear shaft protruding from Durn’s stomach. Durn swiped at him with an oversized fist, but Victor ducked under it, stepping forward to Durn’s left and shoving the spear to the right, forcing him to twist away barking and coughing blood; then, he stomped into the side of Durn’s knee. It was like kicking a small tree, but Victor’s rage-fueled blow elicited a loud pop from the joint, and he knew he’d torn at least one tendon. Durn howled in fury and pain, but the noise only made Victor’s wicked grin widen. He let go of the spear shaft and continued past Durn, grabbing it where it protruded from his back, just below the spearhead, and as Durn stumbled forward, Victor strode in the opposite direction, yanking the full length of the spear through Durn’s body.

The crowd was going apoplectic, screaming and cheering, stomping, fighting, and trying to change bets. Victor didn’t hear them, though; to him, it was a distant buzzing. He only had ears and eyes for Durn, who was coughing blood and pressing his hands to the large hole in his stomach, trying to keep his insides on the inside. Victor tossed the spear up, caught it in his right hand, and, in one smooth motion, fired it like a javelin into Durn’s back. Durn roared anew, stumbling forward on his bad knee and falling into the sand like an old, rotting tree. Victor, blood-flaked teeth exposed in a wide, crazed grin, strode forward, planted a foot on Durn’s back, and yanked the spear out, a spray of blood arcing along with it. Then, Victor stabbed Durn again and again until he was standing on the large man’s back, his tennies soaked in blood, panting and looking around for his next opponent.

After a few moments, while the crowd roared and stomped, Victor’s vision returned to normal, and he was swallowed by pain. He barely had time to register the message in his view before he slipped from Durn’s blood-soaked back, painfully twisting his injured knee and falling into the sand, unable to catch himself with his unresponsive arm.

***Congratulations! You’ve achieved level 10 base human. You have 10 attribute points to allocate. Your first Class selection is available to you.***