The Bet

The tunnels under Los Angeles' more impoverished dwellings were full of bars. In these bars, men drank everything from milk to beer to hemlock. In these bars, men gambled, and so did Philippe, a young martial arts expert. His family had recently cut him off, so he had taken to making bets on his fighting skill- whether or not he could perform some physical feat, or defeat a few particular people. So far, he had never lost, and he intended to keep it so.

It had been a few months since he'd moved into his small apartment when he was approached by a certain brunette in the bar he frequented (but never bought from). He looked up at her from his seat in the corner of the cramped, rather smelly room. "May I help you?" She gave him a calculating look.

"Perhaps. I hear you've never lost one of your bets…or fights. You go by 'Jaguar.'" Her many curls bounced as she flicked her head at the opposite corner of the bar, where a black-hooded individual sat.

"Yes, and?" The girl's voice was soft and somewhat dangerous. Her multicolored eyes flicked over his build momentarily, assessing him.

"My associate and I wish to make a bet." Her eyes flicked downward for a moment. She considers me dangerous? Smart girl. However, she regained her boldness and looked him in the eyes. "You must take it before you hear it." Philippe smirked. This match would be easy- if the lackey was new and shy, the opponent probably had all the experience of a newborn.

Still, he had to give her credit for the conditions of the deal. "I'll take it."

"How much? Whatever you bet, we can top it." A red flag went up in Philippe's head. He would need to know what he was doing before he placed any wager on it.

"Depends what I'm doing." The girl's fingers curled inward, pressing her knuckles to the table. So she was trying to trick me- this deal is for money, sorely needed money by the look of it. Her clothes are cheap imitations. "Would you be so kind as to tell me?"

"You will fight my associate at the Ring, tomorrow night at exactly eight o'clock. I assume you've heard of that particular club?" He nodded, and she went on: "You will fight until one of you is unconscious. No weapons of any kind allowed." She paused, obviously wishing for a reaction. He only continued to stare steadily, blinking when it pleased him. She leaned forward, dark curls framing her face like a curtain.

"Stop trying to intimidate me. It's not going to work," he told her in a bluntly unimpressed voice. She went on as if he had not spoken.

"You will not back out." Then she withdrew. "How much will you place?" His answer was immediate:

"I place a thousand." I can afford that- I got paid today, after all. It was true; his job as an attorney paid well, and he always had plenty to spend. There was no taking it back now, anyway.

"Done." And the brunette walked over to her 'associate's' table and left with the strangely dressed individual.

Christine tugged at Ciara's sleeve as the signal to leave the bar. She didn't like this 'Jaguar' person, but he had a reputation. If Ciara defeated him at the most famous club in the underground, it would attract more bets, more money, and therefore more food. They could not afford to live off of their emergency food for another week. As they left, she felt the blind, mute fighter draw a question mark on her palm. She wanted to know about Jaguar.

"He's taller and thicker than you, probably stronger. His hands have callouses from hitting something hard- perhaps he trains a lot. There was an ink stain on his shirt, just a little one, so he must have an office job. He can't bet a thousand without having a pretty lucrative career." Her frank analysis was what Ciara relied on to overcome her opponents. "Since he's already an expert martial artist, you'll have to be extremely careful."

Ciara tapped the left side of her nose. Christine raised an eyebrow even though her companion couldn't see it. "He smells nice? How? All I could smell in that place was beer and sweat." The blind girl placed a hand on her abdomen, just below her waist. This caused an incredulous, slightly pink expression on the brunette's part. "I cannot believe you just admitted to being attracted to a guy like that."

Their way of communicating was a very one-sided, casual sign language. Now Ciara sighed and lightly tapped the area just over her heart. He raised her heart rate? "I think you were just caught up in the anticipation. One meeting isn't love, and we certainly don't live in a fairytale!" Her voice was half bitter and half amused. "Try waiting until you officially meet him, okay?" Ciara did not gesture in return; she knew her friend was speaking from experience.

A seemingly kind, sweet young man named Raoul had met her in a fairly decent café- he had been working there, and after some very insistent asking, he had managed to take her out to 'his favorite restaurant.' There, in that dark back alley, he had tried to violate her. She still bore the scars of her scrapes against the pavement and bite marks where he had tried to keep her in place. Thankfully, she had escaped, but the whole encounter tended to mess with her view of romance.

With that last word of advice still ringing in the air, the two young women walked home in silence to their one-room flat.

It was several hours before Ciara could get to sleep. The smell of the Jaguar seemed to linger in her lungs and throat even after a thorough wash and brushing her teeth. It had burned itself into her mind, so that she could almost imagine his body heat and the shape of his face. It was as if she knew him already, even though he had yet to say a word to her.

When she finally did sleep, and wander into a land of light and color that she'd never known, she imagined that she was looking at Jaguar. Her eyes could see. But it was too soon before the sun rose and she woke to her alarm at exactly 5:00am.

When she blinked her blind eyes open, she did not remember what Jaguar looked like, but his smell would not leave her. It was beginning to get on her nerves.

The crowd was hushed in the Ring as they settled into their seats. The tension gathered between people's shoulders and in fists clenched around substantial amounts of bet money.

Philippe, however, was relaxed and quite steady as he prowled about, steps slow and measured. The murmuring crowds parted easily for him, as they knew he could strike out at any moment and be standing in a circle of broken bodies within seconds. He radiated danger like a nuclear plant.

He wanted his opponent to see it, too. Perhaps they (the contestant and the manager) would be intimidated. And they thought he was likely to back out? No, not likely at all.

He could see his victim coming his way now. The brunette from before was walking ahead of her into the stone arena. That in itself was unusual, but not unprecedented. Usually, the combatant would stride in first to rile the multitude into a shouting frenzy. He entered the arena as well, curious. Was there some special arrangement he had been unaware of? The whispers raised a notch in volume.

Christine could hardly stop herself from trembling. Here, should anything go wrong, one of her best friends could be killed. The whole place was eerily sterile, as if the janitors had done their best to wipe away the smell of death and blood. She heard Ciara behind her, the long, dark cloak swishing over the smooth granite. She would be completely covered, including her small, bony hands and bare feet. Jaguar didn't know how vulnerable she was.

She looked up. Ciara came to a stop just behind her, on her left. Their hands touched to enable communication behind her. The Jaguar was stalking towards them, looking menacing in stature and mildly interested. Had they done something against the customs of the Ring?

"Be ready to lose those thousand dollars," he said, confident and smooth. There were no scars on his visible body to show that he'd ever been wounded in his fights. "But since you're obviously so new to this game, kudos to you," he continued, throwing a wink towards the hooded figure. "I respect your courage." He held out his hand, ignoring Christine. What a strange person, to wear such a concealing, billowy garment. You'd think it'd be a cumbrance to combat.

Christine squeezed her friend's hand tightly. If she shook that hand, her secret would be given away, and Jaguar could back out, as those were rights: one was allowed to forfeit if they had anything against hitting a woman.

The fight would begin as soon as the manager left the ring. Then everything was up to the referee and the combatants. One can imagine how very reluctant Christine was to leave.

Ciara's focus shifted to Christine as she slowly paced away from her, leaving her to fight for her life. Her companion and guide's footsteps were quiet audible; whoever had built this place had not designed it to be a place of bloodshed. It had been built to enhance sound quality and projection.

She had been told that the referee would watch the fight while walking around the Ring, and observe from as many angles as possible. She hoped that referees in the underground kept their rules and standards pristine, for she desperately needed the money that this bet would bring.

The underground clubs did not use bells, Christine found, as she hurried to get a view of the fight. To her surprise, though, neither Ciara nor Jaguar had moved.

Philippe observed his opponent, who seemed to have no definite shape, save that of a head, extremely narrow shoulders, and sleeves that would've reached the floor were it not for the person's slightly above average height. He took a step forward, and the murmuring of the crowds seemed more tense and suspicious than before. He looked around at the smooth stone walls and floor. There would be nothing to use but his bare hands.

So, being the decisive person that he was, he leapt forward, limbs tingling with the anticipation of impact. Unfortunately for his shaking, energized body, there was no impact.

Ciara went airborne and executed a front flip, landing with her back to Jaguar. The first cheer erupted from one person in the stands, then another, and soon the noise was deafening. A breath of wind ruffled her hood as Jaguar's fist brushed past her ear. His scent was intoxicating, and tinged with sweat from the building humidity and collective body heat in the huge arena, but she forced herself to focus and retaliated with a back kick.

Her kick was blocked from above, as she expected. He was good- but not as smart as she. Her lithe leg wrapped around his arm and shoulder, and with a twist and a great amount of overcoming inertia, she spun him so he cartwheeled with her motion and landed on his side. Then she wondered vaguely if he noticed that she was barefoot. It was a good thing she was not ticklish.

Philippe winced. He had nearly forgotten to exhale as he landed in order to keep from being completely winded. Who and what was this wiry human? His shoulder began to throb. It would probably bruise come morning. Through pain-blurred eyes, he saw his opponent simply standing as if nothing had happened. He pushed himself back to his feet, relatively undamaged. It's time to kick it into full gear. No more play.

He circled this time, more cautious, and keeping his eyes open. The hooded fighter did not move. Perhaps if he attacked from the side… His hypothesis was quickly dashed to bits as the straight punch he aimed was deflected easily and twisted around so that the soft underside of his arm was exposed. That small, warm hand kept its grip and pulled him in closer, but he kicked at the little thing's feet. He could not afford damage to his neck or internal organs.

Ciara did not trip. She had practiced such maneuvers hundreds of times with Christine, so she did what she had trained to do. As Jaguar's foot knocked at the back of her ankle, she shifted her weight to her left and jumped, releasing his arm. It wasn't a perfect landing, but she ended where she wanted to be: just behind him and slightly to his side. Was he at all impressed with her skills? The audience certainly was- they roared again, beginning to chant for 'Cloak.'

She did not hear them, though. All her senses were trained on him. She adopted a firm, wide stance as he attacked again, with a barrage of kicks. Her feet never left their places, but he never got a solid blow it; they were all deflected and evaded. His breathing grew more labored. He is used to overpowering those he fights, not outthinking them.

Meanwhile, Christine chewed her right index finger, worried. Yes, Ciara had done herself proud for a few moments, but all she was doing now was using a very passive strategy. She might wear him down, but only a knockout would bring them the money and assurance of safety. Her heartbeat thrummed in her chest, and she gripped the edge of the railing separating her from the arena. Minutes ticked by, and still, Ciara did not attack in return. The Jaguar's reflexes were slowing slightly, and the screams of the people around her had faded somewhat.

At last, a breakthrough. Philippe was halfway through his tenth spinning kick when he felt a sinewy ankle connect with his own. Then he was in the air again, tumbling and scrambling for purchase on anything- including the other combatant's cloak. He clawed at it, and it tore from the skinny body beneath him, and felt his fall being interrupted by a rough shove, so that he landed on his sore shoulder with the dark, opaque material covering his face. He almost didn't want to get up but for his curiosity. His shoulder felt almost sprained, and this time he really was winded.

Christine's eyes widened in horror as the only protection on her friend was ripped away to reveal her thin, toned figure wrapped in a tight black exercise outfit. The brunette's nails tried to dig their way into the mortar between the blocks of granite. The multitude seemed to gasp as one, then hoot and whistle. Ciara's red face could be seen even from the topmost benches. She ducked her head in shame. Maybe she should have gone for a t-shirt instead of a breathable crop top.

Philippe threw off the shroud-like article and turned his gaze to his mysterious rival. Her smooth skin was white, as white as snow, even if that sounded cliché in his mind. It was quite true. She was tall enough, and lithe as a civet cat with the power and grace of a tigress packed under that pale skin. His eyes travelled up her narrow, oval face and to her dark red eyes. An albino. Light burns her…or was she simply trying to hide her identity?

His question was never answered. She knelt by his head and caressed the side of his face. He still didn't want to get up. Her soft touch felt so much more relaxing than all the painful arm-twisting she had done earlier. His earlier frustration at being unable to hit her was melting away… She did not seem to be looking at him, but her face drew close to his. He could almost hear her breathe.

A sharp pain coursed through his head and he was unconscious in less than a second.

Christine and Ciara left as quietly as they could, taking their winnings from the referee, who did indeed declare that 'the little girl won.' This match would be sure to attract some welcome attention and business, if one could call it that. On the way out, they enlisted someone they recognized to carry the unconscious Jaguar to someplace safe.

They took a taxi to their residence in a victorious, near-giddy silence.

Philippe mumbled something incoherent and blinked the blurriness from his eyes as he sat up and looked about him. The room was one in a bar, the very bar where he'd made that reckless bet. A trickle of water attracted his attention. It was the bartender, filling an old-fashioned washbasin with warm water. "Don't bother. I can bathe myself, thank you."

The bartender (who'd only agreed to take care of the unconscious martial artist because of his debt to a friend) shrugged and said, "You might want a sling for that bad shoulder. Just sayin.'" He added a few drops of ointment to the water for accelerated healing. "And you definitely need to get a drink, mulled wine, preferably. I ain't got no tranquilizer, or what's it."

"No thanks," Philippe grumbled, wincing as the muscles that connected his back and shoulder twitched in pain. "I'll be leaving in a few minutes anyway. What time is it?" His temporary caretaker motioned at a digital clock on the wall. 6:00am.

"You sure got whipped last night, young man. My friend told me all about it- and the reason you're here is 'cause that girl told my friend to get you here." This grabbed his attention. He swung his legs over the side of the lumpy spring mattress and rubbed the back of his head.

"Do you happen to know where a guy could get 'that girl's' number?"