Authors note: So I've had this in my computer for a long time. And I've uploaded it in other places, yet never really quite finished it. But I came across it and had a jolt of excitement.

I do not own Jackson Rathbone, everything else is pure imagination.

Enjoy :)

Cage Rage

When I step into the cage, I don't consider myself helpless. I don't consider myself to be less of a challenge then my opponent. I don't consider anything. People come to watch, to yell, to bet, and to see if someone is going to dig their own grave. They watch from behind the steel bars, catching the blood, the spit, the violence of it all. They don't care if the people inside the cage hate or despise each other, they don't care if the fight ends unwell. All they care about is winning the bet, and seeing the blood on the floor of the champion and the loser.

People ask me why I fight? And my only answer could be I'm out of my mind.

The truth, I am as insane as the next. I do what I do, because I must. I do it for the money; others do it for the lust and fame of the fight.

Millionaire's, even billionaires find the time to walk out their doors and search for a fighter, to go through the harsh streets and find their next employee, someone that wouldn't be missed. People might look upon this as an underground evolution. I look at it as a job, as something that keeps a roof over my head, food on my table and clothes on my back.

I get in that cage and all I think about is the cash that will be put into my hand in the ending of the fight. I don't think about the blood that will be spilt, or the body that will hit the floor with a thud. All I think about is I will be the last one standing; I will be the winner in the end. I will walk away with the cash and everything else is just a blur.

This is my life, my routine, and who ever or whatever comes between that will be given the same attention as my opponents in the cage.

Underground fighting has been going on for years. It has been in the public's eyes, yet no one has got the balls to stop it. Yes it is illegal but that doesn't stop the people from going, or from fighting. The government has raided many fight joints but the numbers of joints across the world ranges in the thousands. Yes, jail time does come if raided but once you step out of that jailhouse; your employer seeks you out. You are never out of a job, unless you're dead. The death count in fights is anonymous. If one might die in a fight, you remain alive to the world outside the joint. Then you disappear without a clue. No one cares, and no one is going to go out and look for you.

This is as organized as books in a library. Sweetie this is a life sentence, fight to the death or until you die. Some try to get away from it all, you never can, and no one ever will. Big people are connected to this, they'll find you and then they'll put you back in that same cage you told yourself you was getting away from.

It all started for me on my eighteenth birthday. The years had torn me down. My life wasn't one of fairy tales. I had no home to call my own, and the only family I had wanted nothing to do with me. I was like many other teens unbeknownst to the world, homeless and waiting for the day my time was finally going to be up. That day hadn't been different from the last, trying to find a place to set myself in for the night, hoping to find some food to fill my empty stomach.

Then I had been given an opportunity, one that someone in my position could not pass up.

"Make sure to deliver this, on time. And no opening the package or you don't get paid." The man told me, I never caught his name, and it wasn't part of the job. I knew this was wrong, something about him set my alarms on full alert, but a hundred bucks would find me a motel room for a few nights and some snacks. So I ignored my gut feelings and did as I was told.

It was all going along fine. I had reached the address I was given, when everything went to shit.

"Give me the package." A harsh voice rasped from behind. I wasn't able to turn for the man had pulled me to him, grabbing the package.

"That wasn't so hard." He laughed pushing me away making me stumble on my feet.

"Now what is a pretty girl like you doing with something like this?" He asked juggling the package between both hands. I looked him over, definitely a junkie, and whatever was in that package was salvation to him. It was also my own, I needed to deliver that package or most likely I'd be dead.

"Give it back." I growled.

"Feisty. I like that, I haven't had anyone sweet talk me in a while. How about a little fun tonight?" He then pounced on me, smothering me to the stone brick wall, groping me.

With a burst of adrenaline and pure instinct of survival, I pushed out my arms causing him to fall back. He then came after me again, I was young and probably stupid but I wasn't fragile. I knew how to take care of myself. Kicking him hard in the chest I landed a few blows to his face. It seemed to anger him knowing I had the upper hand. He wouldn't tolerate that. He reached into his pocket taking out a knife. It was either him or me I realized, reflecting his blows I landed one hard kick to his chest, pushing him to the floor. He didn't move after that, and with caution I stepped closer to him, pushing him to the side with my foot. And there it was, the knife pierced right in his side. Not knowing what else to do, I calmed myself grabbing the package and finishing up what I had started.

The end of the night had come, and there I stood cold and alone in a dark alleyway hoping to find shelter from the rain. The headlights of a car blurred my vision, and then a sound, a voice.

"I have a job proposal for you." A man says loudly over the rain.

"I'm not interested." I told him moving away from the car and walking to the end of the alleyway leading to the main street.

"Ten grand." That's all he needed to say.

My first fight, I remember well.

Young girl of eighteen fighting a built man of thirty-two. Everyone looked upon me whispering prayers. They booed as they saw me enter the cage, saying the fight would be unfair. How could a girl of eighteen that weighed 115 pounds and height of 5'6 beat someone that weighed two times more and bent his head so not to hit the ceiling? I showed them, I showed them good. Ten grand, I was winning it. I won that fight, fair and square. I then moved up the list fighting every person who wanted my paycheck. Beating them all down to a pulp.

I was not useless or helpless, not close.

At the age of 20, I was crowned champion, no one could beat me.

Now at the age of 23, I still held that crown.

Still got paid ten grand a fight and lived the life.

The life of a cage fighter.