CHAPTER 4

A/N – Hello, my dears! It's me again (and I just sounded like fucking Excalibur… great) with a new delayed chapter of this fic I keep saying I love but do nothing for, damn it. Anyway, if you've known me for a while by now my epic lazy-ass-ness is already old news to you and as such you have my deepest gratitude for sticking around! That being said, enough of this shit and enjoy today's update!

Warnings: mentions of graphic violence, mentions of alcohol and substance abuse

Luca Majerus – Luxembourg

For an underground location the Doom Dome was quite impressive, almost like the average-sized Roman arena, and the magic-enhanced lighting system was throwing a surprisingly bright glow over the high walls of brick and concrete rising above its bottom, holding the massive iron gates, the first level which was destined for the common audience and further up, to the private loges which gave the best view of the show. Below, there was a complicated network of dungeons leading up to the gates of the arena, where it was pitch dark and a small army of lycan guards belonging to the owners roamed, taking care of the props and weaponry, maneuvering the special effects and handling the warrior slaves and those 'temporarily hired'.

Still, it was far from refined, in fact it was one of the foulest places of entertainment as far as the underworld was concerned, even if the gore, no-rules fights and the pervasive scent of blood attracted a large crowd every night. The scent of blood and death was impregnated in the very walls, mixed in the smoke of the countless magical torches, freshened up again and again by the random drifts of air and finally, the voice of blood and death was in the mad roars of the audience which often covered the music blaring from the sound system.

And then there was the show.

Fighters and magical beasts and inventions of all sorts were facing each other every night, weapons of all sorts slashed, hacked, torn, new blood constantly adding to the murky layer of shallow water on the floor of the arena, while countless spectators watched, enthralled and mortified in the same time, their senses assaulted, unable to tear their gaze off the gore display of sheer violence.

"Well, still the same shit pit as I remembered, but I suppose it's a profitable business…" Mathias observed, leaning on his forearms over the ornate railing of Kiku Honda's loge and scanning the swarming place. "So how does it work these days? Still a good no rules, fight to the death kind of thing?"

"No rules and it's a complete gamble – you get whatever comes out of the opposite gate, that is to say whatever the owners pick to make it more exciting for the crowd and for the bets placed on the respective fighter. But Grims are still banned, my friend. Only contractors can fight, because there's always a chance that their Grims might screw up," the petite Japanese man replied, further concentrating into the lavish folds of his silk kimono and bringing a black orchid to his nose discreetly. "So I'm afraid you won't be making any money around here on your own."

The Dane waved his hand. "Well, no need just yet, I had some collections left to make from the last time I was on the job. For now I'll just focus on the contract I'm currently working on."

"You could have fooled me," Kiku chuckled. "But please, do tell me of this new contractor of yours. And if you're in money now, are you considering getting insurance with the house of Majerus? I've heard that the young Majerus who took over the business recently – I believe his name is Luca – is quite reliable."

Mathias had heard about this practice before, because even if in theory the Grim contracts were infallible and no contractor could escape their clutches once marked, some sorcerers still managed to pull some unfortunate stunts to elude their contractual obligations, albeit forfeiting the benefits of protection. And this was where the Majerus family came in – being powerful and knowledgeable enough to get their hands on the rogue ones and deliver them back to their Grims, but they required a particularly expensive insurance fee be paid per contract and he had zero intentions to fill the pockets of the stiff-assed Luxembourgers.

"Besides, I've never had any problems," he said. "As for my contractor, he's-…"

Mathias paused brusquely, squinting as he glanced on the opposite side of the arena and spotting said contractor in the common area. By the look of it, Lukas Bondevik was currently in the company of a bushy-browed young man – another low level sorcerer judging by the lack of stylish clothing – and… was that Alfred Jones, a.k.a. the most ill-reputed Grim of all?

"Thor's cock…" the Dane grumbled under his breath, anticipating trouble, as he straightened his back and hastily smoothed out the lapels of his black dress suit. "Well, what do you know, Kiku, speak of the devil… As it turns out my new 'master' is here I guess I'd better be on my way if I want to make sure the little grinch who thinks himself a Viking doesn't get into some shit…"

Shoulders stiff and hands clenched onto the dirty iron railing, Arthur purposely ignored the bizarre crowd around them as he stared down at the sinister reflection of lights in the filthy water on the floor of the arena below. It had a distinctive reddish hue from all the spilled blood and it was littered with random unidentifiable debris the maintenance staff wasn't bothering with, merely gathering up the corpses and the scattered pieces of weaponry after each fight.

"Ewww, man that's gross," Alfred pointed, scrunching his nose. "What the fuck are we looking for in this shithole again?"

"We're looking for the bloody automatons," the Englishman muttered ill-humoredly. "And what the hell is up with you?! Yesterday you were all 18th century 'yes sir, no sir' and now you sound like 'a boy from the hood'!"

"Yesterday I had just arrived here, but Grims have the power of adapting very quickly to the times and circumstances of a new contract!"

"So now you talk like that because we're a bunch of bums here," Arthur concluded dryly, to which the American instantly pointed that both the head of the Magic Crime department and his lovely assistant did constantly drop the 'f bomb' at every two words.

Meanwhile, Lukas was feeling dizzy and almost nauseous from all the noise, people and sights, also having secretly snorted some more fairy dust prior to this endeavor (since he was convinced that he could not again lay eyes on the sinister automatons without passing out on the spot if entirely sober).

"Well, the best fights are supposed to start right after ten o'clock, which would be very soon," he said. "Isn't that what the prince told you? We have to stay and watch, I mean if the automatons appear-…."

"Ugh… there are no seats here!" Alfred complained. "If only we could have rented a loge… Why the fuck are you so poor, stupid red coat?!" he whined, before getting distracted by a group of giggling nymphs clad in almost see-through evening gowns.

"Useless brat!" the green-eyed blond sighed. "I need something to drink. Now."

And a drink would come in handy, as they were about to discover. The three had arrived during the interval between the afternoon 'small stuff' and the evening's 'glam matches' – as the plaques at the entrance advertised - just in time to see the maintenance staff clean up the aftermath of the previous show. And that alone had been bad enough. Lukas for one had no desire to watch the automatons hack someone to pieces after he'd felt one of their blades on his own flesh, so he spent the last golden coin to grace his pockets on three large cups of extremely dubious wine which he generously shared with his companions.

The wine was very strong and tasted foul – of medicinal herbs mixed with something disgusting – and the instant dizziness it brought to both the Norwegian and his boss (Alfred was unaffected by it, being dead and all) turned out to be unfortunate as the speakers announced the beginning of the first match and the relaxed crowd of spectators just lingering about suddenly rushed forward chaotically towards the railings from all sides, shouting and struggling to get a better view of the arena, while up in the private loges the privileged underworlders lounged on soft sofas and were served fine foods and beverages. Lukas slumped in defeat against Arthur's shoulder, while the latter stepped on someone's foot and was sharply elbowed in the stomach by a frantic bet broker.

The American was right – it sucked being poor.

"Man, that's tough! Did you hear that?! A fighter never knows what he's up against, they just walk out there and it's whatever comes out through the gates on the other side! And no. Fucking. Rules!" Alfred exclaimed, yelling to make himself heard over the growing heavy metal blare of the sound system. "Dude, I'm scared…"

"Why the fuck are you scared?" his contractor yelled back, scowling. "Fuck, I never liked bloody mosh pits…"

Suddenly, Lukas really didn't want to see this, any of it.

Cold shudders started running down his spine the moment one of the iron gates began to creak open, the noise of the heavy chains loud enough to be audible even over the music. Then a bulky-looking man in shiny metal gear and armed with a long sword and gleaming bronze shield stepped out under the glaring lights, now burning a lot more brighter than during the interval, the reddish murk sloshing disgustingly at every step he took.

The audience fretted and cheered madly, calling a name he couldn't quite make out while the fighter growled savagely and waved his weapon, and when the other gate finally lifted and something yet unidentifiable but large enough to fill the stone frame nearly up to the ceiling came into view, the blond covered his eyes with his hands. What followed was a mess of shouting, growls and roars, clashing of metal on the background of deafening, bad quality music, but the match didn't last long – or at least Lukas had this impression, not having really paid attention. At any rate, he chose quite the unfortunate moment to sneak a peek between his fingers, just in time to see the bulky fighter's helmet-covered head severed neatly and dropping into the water with a sickening splash, followed immediately after by the headless body.

"OH, FUCK!" the American Grim exclaimed in shock as his contractor doubled over, hand pressed over his mouth and the crowd unleashed a hell of cheers, yelling, cursing and whatnot.

"Look, we're wasting our time like this," the Norwegian said, looking anywhere but at the 'stage' below. "I think we should split up and just look for the automatons. We draw too much attention as a group and I think I might get lucky down there in the dungeons," he suggested, pointing towards the stairs leading further down into the bowels of the Arena. Technically it should have been 'staff and applicants only', but random members of the public seemed to be going in and out freely.

"Absolutely not! What's… what's gotten into you?!" Arthur snapped, still heaving and wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. "I didn't contract this brat for nothing, we have to stick with him! Haven't you seen what sort of folk lurks around here?!"

But the pale blond just rolled his eyes, downing the rest of the disgusting wine and tossing the paper cup over his shoulder. "Come on, Artie, I'll be fine. I can take care of myself, you know?" Because like hell he would admit that he just couldn't stay and watch another fight and see more body parts flying around.

"Like hell you can! That infamous charming gift of yours isn't infallible, you know? It never worked on me!"

"I never used it on you, Arthur," Lukas said grimly.

"Dude, he's gonna be fine," Alfred intervened, winking behind the Englishman's back. "No one's gonna pick on him, I promise. They're just too busy with watching the fights and… and shit."

"The fuck do you know?!"

Lukas slipped away from the bickering pair, only mumbling a low 'I'll meet you guys back here' before heading straight for the stairs. As soon as he was far enough to be out of Arthur's sight, his assistant rolled up his jacket sleeves, making sure that Kohler's axe-shaped mark was fully exposed.

"Th's pl'ce is h'ribble," Berwald grumbled under his breath as the pair made their way under the smoke-stained stone arches and into one of the cells near the arena gate. "Are we r'lly into th't m'ch debt?"

"Yeah…" the smaller blond by his side sighed, dropping the shoulder bag he was carrying onto one of the stone benches and proceeding to take off his jacket. "I'm really sorry, Ber, but I just fucked up again. Guess I'm bad with finances or something." He sighed again. "And I forgot to wash this too."

Tino pulled out his costume out of the bag, together with a wand of sorts, wooden and crooked in places. He was always attracting strange and confused stares whenever he came down in the dungeons wearing mundane human street clothes and looking like a helpless little boy who was simply lucky to have a dangerous looking-bodyguard from Hell by his side. Very few people here were actually able to recognize the Finn without the costume and mask he wore when he fought and the others out there would have been shocked to see what their favorite really looked like.

"Ye want the usual stuff, Reaper?" a lycan guard asked, poking their head in.

"Yep, always," Tino confirmed cheerfully, then pulled off his shirt and gave the wooden wand to the Grim. "Quick, start drawing, we don't have much time."

"'S g'nna h'rt," the Swede mumbled, more to himself, since it wasn't the first time they were doing this."Wh're do you w'nt th'm?" he asked, laying his large palm gently onto his contractor's small shoulder.

"Neck, back of the neck, arms, chest, stomach and on my back. After that, I could use some on my legs too. Can't leave any weak spots now, can we?"

Berwald got to work, fingers precisely maneuvering the wand the tip of which sparked, burning the runes into the other's tender skin. The Finn flinched and hissed every now and then, whenever the Grim pressed the tool harder onto his body, causing the latter to groan in frustration.

"I c'n protect you j'st f'ne, you d'n't need all th's painf'l st'ff. I w'n't let an'th'ng bad happ'n to you!"

Tino sighed again and leaned back into the Swede's strong chest as the other paused and pressed a kiss into his soft blonde strands. "I know, Ber. Heh, that's why I'm doing this in the first place… But it's better if it just looks real, you know? People want to see really strong fighters and heroes and-"

"People j'st w'nt to see bloodsh'd," Berwald stated with a hint of disgust. "They always did."

"TINO?!"

Lukas had pretty much gotten lost in the hallways of the dungeons which - although really poorly illuminated, smoke-infested and filthy – were as swarming with people as the common level above. It had turned out that many came down here to watch the preparations, admire slaves, close deals or offer themselves for hire, but all in all the quality of 'patrons' was significantly worse than of those looking for entertainment upstairs. All he could do was stare around in horror, looking for the infernal cogwheel contraptions and yet dreading the moment he would find them, unaware of the stares he was getting back and especially of the black shadow following him closely.

And then he'd reached the row of cells near one of the gates – where the sudden light had blinded him – and laid eyes on none other than his cousin!

"Tino?! What the hell are you doing here?!"

The Finn offered him a small, awkward smile, pulling away from his Grim and picking up his discarded shirt. "Actually, Lukas… I got into a bit of trouble with the money so…" he explained, putting the shirt on quickly. "I'm here to fight."

Lukas blinked slowly, having trouble to process what he'd just heard, the disturbing image of the severed head and body dropping down in the water still lingering behind his eyelids.

"You're here to… what?!"

To be continued

Okay so it turns out that I suck big time because I promised action and now I'm making you wait for it. Pffft!