We're going down, down in an earlier round
And Sugar, we're going down swinging
I'll be your number one with a bullet
A loaded God complex, cock it and pull it
-"Sugar, We're Going Down," Fall Out Boy
When the moon is up, you know there is a fight taking place somewhere in the world. You know there is a man beating another man, and you know there will always be a winner and a loser. The moon can either be the first thing you see, or the last. But you always see it, and you can always think about whoever's losing.
I, however, thought only of myself, and the fist pressing my throat into the cement. The roar of the fire left tints of orange and red against his--another Greaser on the other side's--skin, and the mob of boys diving into each other. The sound of skin against metal and the echo of chains were like the background music on a horror movie. I swing my fist and kick my feet, watching the boots stomping in front of me and the bodies landing with a thump. I know we're losing--we're all losing--but I struggle anyway. A fighting chance, after all, means you go out swinging.
"How's that, kid?" the boy asked, slamming his knuckle into my jaw. "You ain't got no chance."
I dig my heels into his chest, and, surprisingly, he goes flying back. I scamper to my feet and aimlessly pick another bust. With rumbles, there is no designated strategy. There are no plans, no preparation. You get pumped up, and you pick a face to beat. You don't think about anything but winning.
I wonder if anyone will die tonight, with chains swinging and pipes flying. I've never seen one with weapons, but someone always gets dragged off in a body bag. I wonder if it'll be me.
"Pony!" Dally shouts at me, "what're you doing?"
I realize I've stopped moving, now just standing there like an idiot in the middle of the chaos, watching bodies beat at each other at my feet. I back away, feeling the thwack of metal at the back of my head. I duck a beat too late, and I'm suddenly rolling to the ground with a pair of hands wrapped around my throat and another pulling at my hair.
I see guys on our side retracting, backing farther and farther into the park, away from the others. I feel a pit of dread in my gut. I don't like the idea of losing, especially this pointless, mindless battle against frustrated teenagers with no one else to take it out on.
Dying in a fight, though, I like that. Especially if your side wins because of it.
I flip a guy to his back, dig his face into the cement, and, suddenly, I don't care if he kills me or his friend kills me, or if I kill him. I just want us to win. I want me to win.
"Back off, kid!" a guy shouts in my ear. I feel a metal bar pelting on my back, but I can hardly feel a thing. The fire is inches away, and I could grab a guy--any guy--and throw him in. Guy dies, other side wins. I remember Dally saying it, right before the rumble. First kill.
But I wouldn't be able to do it without getting caught in it. I can't just push him in, cause he's got a good grip on my shirt and I'd go right in after him.
I wonder what Soda would think of that. Me and another guy burning to death over some fight that I had nothing to do with.
We'd win, though.
I realize I've been moving closer and closer to it, and the flames are licking my skin and catching the other guy's boots, so that it's smoldering in clumps under his leg. He's trying to grab my neck, so all his body weight is on me. I could just throw myself back, and he'd be in the fire, and his side would run...
I hear Dally, though, shouting in my face from years back. It was after my first rumble. I nearly gotten myself killed, almost threw a guy into an onslaught of liquor soaked flames. He'd dragged me from my brothers, from the blood soaked concrete, and shook me like a rag doll, his own face red with excursion, screaming, "What the fuck are you thinking about, huh? What the fuck is wrong with you?"
I'd stared at him dumbly, whispering to myself like a psych patient, "We could've won...if he'd gone in the fire...we could've won..."
He said something, with this angry, enraged to the point of hysterics gleam in his eye, "You think dying's winning? Have you ever seen a guy die?"
When I said nothing, he said, calmly, "That ain't winning, kid. No one wins from that. It's just some guy dead."
...that's just some guy dead...
People are yelling, yelling at me, and I let go of the neck in between my hands. He falls onto the concrete and slides away, and I realize his side is backing away, and so is mine. Darry grabs me by the crook of the neck and drags me off. "What're you thinking? How hard di they hit you? Are you outta your mind?"
We lost, I figured out. We lost, cause too many of ours got knocked out. Great.
Author's Note: Nothing really to say. Sorry if it sucks. Thanks to whatcoloristhesky for putting up with my hysterics and being beta.