When we first showed up, the place didn't seem like much. The fights happened in an old abandoned warehouse full of dust and dirt with a roped-off ring in the middle for combatants. The whole thing felt like something my father would have liked, and I found myself wondering how many of the old battered gamblers might have known him back when he was alive. A lot of them looked like his sort; mean, apathetic, and grungy. A few were pretty drunk too.
Cato stood out in the dimly lit crowd like a solitary breath of fresh air. Barely 16, he was already taller and wider across the shoulders than most, and his Training Centre muscle was tight and smooth compared to most of the burly or wiry men dropping into the ring. Even the younger ones weren't sleek like Cato and he earned nearly as many cat calls as he did fearful looks as he pushed our way toward the organizer. The man was dirty and half-drunk, but when his eyes landed on Cato, they lit up.
"Hey! Come to get your hands dirty?" He called over the noise. Cato grasped the man's hand without a second thought and gestured at me.
"Tag, this is Clove." The man's countenance shifted as he turned to look me over. "She's small," Cato said with a rueful and discreet wink at me, "but she doesn't disappoint."
He'll pay for that later.
Tag's eyes wander over me, but unlike Augustus who makes my skin crawl when he does it, this feels more like a salesman looking over new stock. His eyes finally come to rest on the silver knife I twirl between my fingers; the same one Cato tried to take years ago.
"You good with knives, girl?"
"Good enough," I smirk.
"You know these fights are hand-to-hand only, right?"
"I can handle that."
"And you're 16? That's one of the only rules 'round here."
"Last November," I lie easily.
The look on Tag's face doesn't betray confidence, but he looks to Cato again for reassurance and seems to decide I might be worth something. "Alright," he relents. "I'll put you in the lineup and we'll see what you can do. Ole' Mero still needs a–"
"Not Mero," interrupts Cato. "That's insulting. There's got to be someone else."
"Alright," he relents, turning to finger through the filthy pages of a log book. "Want Cas?"
Cato still looks dissatisfied. "What about Davik? I saw him on our way in. I know he's here."
Tag gives a relenting sigh. "Yeah… I think I can move some stuff around. Ambitious, aren't we? Know from tangling with her yourself?" he asks with a toothy grin.
The innuendo is not lost on me. "Set it up," I hiss, flipping the knife more quickly. I don't need Cato's reputation to get respect and the prospect of 'tangling' with him makes me jumpy.
"And you?" Tag asks, turning to Cato, who looks more amused than he should at the remark. He'll pay for that later too.
"What's the next one you've got?"
"Well, Dak's headed in now, but I can put you in after. Got a guy who's lookin' to mess up that pretty face of yours. New guy by the name of Sal, over there…" He points across the room to one of the men leaning against the back wall. "Want 'im?"
"Absolutely"