Chapter 14: Pit Dogs

Cesar intentionally hobbled his pace exiting the elevator, the painkillers that old drunk Morales had given him leaving much to be desired. Being hit in the first place was bad enough, but against a brand new pit dog and having it slow him down this much? That stung even worse than his liver. But he took some satisfaction in how the other man's arm must feel right now. Cesar still couldn't forgive himself for failing to deflect such a telegraphed move, even if he had been using an unfamiliar style. The crowd didn't seem to care for his failing, in fact, they loved it, but theirs was the last opinion he valued when it came to the art of fighting.

He walked past many trophies and baubles of matches years past that Santana had not earned on his way to the captain's private box seat. The room itself was a gaudy lounge room, full of swanky exotic leather furniture and the lingering smell of overpriced vodka. Cesar could already hear that particular brand of smarminess that he always used when he knew he had performed below his standards. Even after his failure against the American, the most he received was a sarcastic laugh and some chide for his taste in dress rather than any real reprimand. It was clear to him that Santana had some grand plan in mind for the would-be hero and his role in it was to be a footnote with only bruises to show for it.

The hushed mutter of a distant crowd and faint whiffs of the distinct stench of Cannabis told him he was close to the man who summoned him. Taking a long breath, Cesar walked through the open glass sliding door and into the box seat. Santana leaned back in his reclining chair, his ever-present bodyguards, Juan and Don, taking their places in the seats behind him. He took a long drag from a marijuana cigarette mounted in an almost comically long holder as he turned to face his subordinate. He exhaled with an open grin, the smoke breaching the gap in a repulsive fashion as it drifted to Cesar. Remaining stoic in the rancid cloud, he listened as that slimy tone crept into his ears.

"Ah, there's our boy!" Santana proclaimed in what Cesar could only assume was false joy given his failures today. "Come, take a seat." He gestured to an empty seat to his left as he gave the order. Being in no position to break ranks at the moment, Cesar obeyed, turning his head to exhale and take a quick breath as soon as Santana moved his attention away. "Saw the end of your fight as we were heading down."
"Know your enemy…" Cesar preempted whatever insult Santana was leading into. "I work out how he fights, I'll beat him."
"Oh?" The captain said, genuinely amused this time. "And what makes you think I'll let you?"

Cesar let his expressions speak for him and Santana's own stretched further as he explained. "That kid's a goldmine, six days out of getting a hollow point in the skull and he was able to take you down. One day with him in the ring'll make me enough to buy half those Guatemalans and a week'll buy me their whole damn cartel."
"If you can get him in the ring…" Cesar snidely amended.
Santana's chuckle was low and his smile was wide enough to reveal the one space his tooth whitener had begun to fade as Elvis' next announcement from a box opposite theirs served as his response.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the Golden City! We have a special match-up for you today! We've just had a challenge from a brand new pit dog I'm sure some of you will recognize from local news and the rest of you from the world news! Introducing the boy in blue that quite literally stopped a terrorist attack single-handed, I give you fine people: Brian 'Doomfist' Dailor!"
Not all of the crowd cheered, but those that did were raving as he made his slow stride into the ring. Even in a place as low as this, Talon was thought of even lower. He cared little for the reverence he received, keeping his eyes locked on the opposite entryway, cracking tape-wrapped knuckles. Cesar could respect the indifference the American showed to the bloated masses, but his presence here remained baffling.

"Tezpoztli," Santana read his thoughts "Calling a Jew an oven-dodger tends to get them hot-headed, ironically enough." He hocked up phlegm as he laughed at his own joke, spitting into an ashtray before he continued. "He's only just out of the hospital. Only a punctured lung though, he can go the distance." Cesar wasn't quite sure what the term meant, but by the context and knowing Tezpoztli, he could only assume the worst. Still, the thought of a fighter of his caliber being tricked so easily into a fight he couldn't win seemed unbelievable and the idea that he had been beaten by such a fool was suddenly unacceptable. The cheers died down and Elvis continued before he had any real time to dwell on the supposed facts.

"And his opponent, A rising star on a six-win streak with fourteen career victories in only three weeks and sure to be a hundred more: Miss 'Whiplash' Concita!"
Concita skipped and danced her way through the entryway, her face alight and waving to an equally jubilant audience. Concita wore a garb atypical for their gang, a warm yellow crop top that barely covered more than her visible sports bra did and a pair of tight false leather pants of sunset red that pushed the bounds of modesty, both of which were at odds with the rosary she was using to tie back her purple highlighted dirty blonde hair into a short ponytail. She and Cesar were the same age, though he was her superior in Vemana in terms of total victory. He had no high opinion of her, outside of her win record, finding her grating and often pretentious, but he didn't think her deserving of this. If what Cesar had seen and been taught was indicative of anything, women held far less physical strength than men and that was assuming both were putting in the same amount of exercise, which he could easily hazard to guess Brian had been getting more of.

There were no rules in Vemana banning women and men competing against each other, as there were no rules in general, but it was a rare sight even if the crowds showed little care even when all previous bouts of this nature had been entirely one-sided. Few fighters, even some of the most hardened of the gang that made sport here, were comfortable beating up women no matter how skilled they might be and Santana didn't enjoy having to pay out on almost unanimous bets, but this Brian was not that scrupulous. If he had any shame in what he was about to do, the American didn't show it on his face as he sized up Concita, paying a little too much attention to her legs for Cesar's liking.

The young gangster caught himself for his assumption, having already undersetimated the courier during their first encounter. Looking at the situation far more clinically, Concita had a clear advantage in reach, easily being eight inches taller than the half-sized hero. Cesar hadn't watched many female matches in his time at Vemana, but he understood that Concita had some skill in Taekwondo, or at least what passed for training for it in their corner of the world. The courier's best route to victory, by Cesar's reckoning, would be a highly aggressive approach to close the distance as he found his fighting style to be comparatively lacking in defensive options and Concita's style combined with her gender left counter-attacks far less effective.

Brian remained steadfast, all muscles coiled and ready to strike as Concita stretched in as distracting a fashion as she was willing to do in such a public place. The American wasn't falling for it, his poise showing no sign of weakness even as his opponent said something Cesar was unable to hear over the crowd but could easily guess the gist of it by her sultry demeanor. The whole idea of this match-up still did not sit well with him, and he let Santana know that.

"You really having him fight a girl?"
"He didn't object to the idea. He's famous for punching a woman, after all."
"She doesn't have a chance and the inbreds in the seats know it. How is this shit plan of yours supposed to make money?"
"It's a long term investment, the kid may be a fighting genius but he's an emotional retard, this is just one more thing I can blackmail and guilt-trip him with. Besides, Whiplash has had it good for too long, she needs a reminder of where she sits on the ladder. You should know how that feels."

Elvis had impeccable timing when it came to cutting Cesar off. "Now, with no further ado: Pit dogs, show us what you got!" The ringing of a bell punctuated to start the first of Brian's many matches in the Sacrificial pit.

It was over in seconds.

Brian and Cesar proved to be of the same mind and he choose pure aggression with one large difference in method. He charged forward with furious speed while his opponent remained still in her stance, coiled and ready to strike with her sizable legs. The supposed hero, perhaps wishing to set a precedent or maybe to simply catch Concita unawares as she attempted to make her first strike, did the unexpectable. Stopping on a dime and taking a low-position, he threw all his momentum into a punch that landed square in one of the three places he ought not to lay his hands on. Shocked was an understatement for the crowd's aura, but none, other than Cesar, showed any disgust.

Without pausing in his attack, Brian shot his body upwards and his skull collided with her jaw as she recoiled. She staggered back as Brian shook off the force of his own blow, but he grabbed her by the arm before she could truly recover. Dizzied but not down, Concita snap kicked for his sensitive area, but he had expected as much and positioned his legs wisely to absorb the assault, though he nearly collapsed doing so. She shot out with a flurry of open-palmed attacks with her free arm, some making purchase with the side of his head, her painted nails scathing across his skin far too close to his eye, and the rest blocked by his arm. Lashing out from his defense with a backhanded strike that stunned her momentarily, he seized the opportunity to throw her to the ground while she was off-balance, the battle ending as her head slammed to the ground.

Mixed was a generous way to describe the audience's reaction. Fights in Vemana generally didn't last long, given the lack of restrictions, but this was a different level. Though not obvious to the uninitiated, Cesar could see the martial prowess on display, even in such short bursts. Skill trumped all in the ring and for all the victories under Concita's belt and what technique she was able to display in the slivers of time that Brian allowed, she simply could not compare. The courier was a hard-wired machine built for fighting and he would only grow greater the longer he stayed here. Cesar was told the same about himself not long ago.

The man who sang that praise, however, wasn't quite as impressed. Santana contemplated as the supposed hero looked to their seats. He had regret written on his face as he wiped the blood from it. Cesar had a hard time believing it, he had snuck one too many smiles during his fight for that. The captain of Los Muertos leaned forward as he exhaled another nauseating puff of smoke in Cesar's direction.
"Quality," he said, enunciating every syllable to the courier who could not hear over the unsure cheers and jeers of the crowd.
Frustrated and defiant, Brian shot a glare and said an unheard, but well understood, single word.
"Next."
Santana grinned his jackal grin and nodded to Elvis.

"Now is that a first impression or is that a first impression, my beautiful people?! But don't you think we could give the boy an even warmer welcome!?" With only those two sentences, the crowd was whipped right back into a frenzy. There was a reason Santana kept him around even if his glory days were behind him, Elvis was king of the ring even when he wasn't standing in it. "And what could be warmer than the scorching hot style of our next contender: Jorge 'Hot Rod' Hernandez!?"

Right on his cue, Jorge made his entrance, striding out with self-assured swagger. He was clad in fine leathers far above his status in the gang, only gaining the custom-tailored clothing through a series of loans and favors from his comrades. More noticeable was his well-oiled hairstyle that was over a century out of fashion and what had earned him his dubious moniker. He hadn't cared that the name was intended as an insult, it was his style and no petty jeer would damage his pride. Cesar could respect that sort of confidence and on the two occasions they faced in the ring, he saw it extended to his fighting style as well. It seemed Santana would be getting his quality match.

As the Hot Rod strode over the unconscious body of Whiplash, Brian began searching his opponent for a clue to victory he would never find in a stance that did not exist. Cesar had made the same mistake in thinking there was anything one could glean from Jorge's casual stride. In fact, that absolute lack of predictability is what led to him developing an unorthodox style of his own after losing his first match against the Hot Rod and drove him to hone it further after his success in their rematch. While he had little right to claim the courier had cheated in their fight, Cesar was sure the results would have been much different had he not started it with a literal vehicular assault.

Brian was visibly tense and battle-ready, while Jorge remained relaxed and casual when the bell rung out to start their match. The would-be hero wisely decided to forgo the direct approach this time, instead choosing to circle his opponent while keeping distance, waiting for his chance. Cesar could agree with the idea, having lost the first time by not doing the same, but Jorge had known better than to give people time to maneuver after their second match. As was in his nature, the Hot Rod nonchalantly paced toward Brian, still revealing nothing of what exactly his next move would be, even if his intent was clear.

The slow approach was all he needed to pressure the courier into attacking far earlier than he should have. Rushing in mostly blind, Brian began with a quick series of jabs, playing things on the safe side as much as he could now. Cesar could understand why, a young man of Brian's size would not last long trading blows, instead he aimed to end his fights quickly with surgical strikes. It was true that a drawn-out battle would see him defeated, but rushing to end it now would just hasten that failure.

Brian didn't even have a chance to see the punch that knocked the wind from his body, but it was clear that he felt it. Jorge's moniker was not solely based on his cockeyed fashion sense, his speed was unmatched by all but a few above his age class in Vemana. In less than a flame's flicker, he followed up his attack with a sudden blow to the side of the American's head, landing a fist squarely on his right ear. To Cesar's surprise, Brian was able to block the punch aimed at his windpipe despite being breathless and half-deaf, even if it sent his forearm colliding with it anyway.

The would-be hero barely had the sense to stumble back after such a beating, but the space created didn't last long. The Hot Rod's left leg shot out at record speed for a kick that very well could have decapitated his opponent had he been made of anything other than flesh and bone. Showing his own impressive displays of swiftness, Brian managed to recover and assumed a defensive stance just in time to glance the strike across the length of his left arm, though not without obvious pain. Jorge brought his leg back down like a scythe, reversing the motion in an instant to harvest another victory. His attack was defanged by Brian's unsteady grip by the time it reached his neck and Cesar was in equal spades flattered and offended by what he bore witness to.

It was an exact copy of his unnamed stance from his unnamed style, albeit not without its faults, given the courier's clear lack of experience with it. Putting his rough understanding into play, Brian immediately sent a backhand to Jorge's inner thigh and swiftly heaved his forearm upward once it made contact. Briefly stunned and taken off balance by this attack, the Hot Rod was unable to defend against the last piece of the combo, a gut-punch delivered to make him share his opponent's breathlessness. Before the would-be hero could take any further advantage of the Hot Rod's vulnerable state, the anachronistic goon twisted in the air to bring his other leg careening toward Brian's head in another unbelievable display of agility.

"Like I said" Santana broke Cesar's concentration "A goldmine." The young gangster was forced to agree, even if he kept that to himself. He could not claim it was bad form, as he had done the same mere minutes ago. Despite pride being a factor that Cesar could not deny, he could not bring himself to think less of the American for managing to understand his self-taught fighting style after facing it only once. Even when he had tried to do the same it was more a piece-meal combination of what he had lost against and the many similar styles that he had not. As the two in the ring staggered back to their feet, all of Cesar's focus was glued to the shorter man as they returned to square one and circled each other like prehistoric dogs.

Brian didn't hide his contemplation well, but just what exactly it entailed remained unknown to the gangster in the box seat, to say nothing of the one in the ring. Cesar's victory against Jorge came after a hard night's work of reading his patterns and months beforehand of honing his newly forged skills, something Brian did not have. His instincts were sharp, there was no denying that, but where Brian was a knife, Jorge was a rapier. Without some impeccable planning, the would-be hero had no path to victory, but Cesar could see the poorly concealed edge of a smirk on his face telling him he had found one.

Brian suddenly relaxed, jogging in place but keeping his eyes moving and looking all too sure of himself, even if he couldn't blink both of them at the same time now. The Hot Rod didn't change his pattern by even a step, forcing the courier to put his wasted momentum to use, though it seems to Cesar that he had planned it that way. His path took him to Concita, who had remained motionless but for her breathing on the cold floor of the ring. It was unusual, but not quite uncommon, for fallen combatants to remain in the ring after a bout had concluded, but Santana's intentions of establishing Brian as a force to be reckoned made no room for pause or worry for the other young men and women he had forced into Vemana.

The courier hopped over the unconscious girl and, in a maneuver few in the stands could see, struck his thigh with his fist as he landed. Jorge picked up his pace while keeping it methodical and deliberate as he closed the last few meters of distance. Brian still had not taken a stance as he kept up his slow retreat, mirroring his opponent, but Cesar doubted he was trying to copy yet another style, even if he was clearly inspired by the Hot Rod's strategy.

Meters reduced to feet now, Jorge fought defensively with a leg sweep he had intended to hit the American with the absolute edge of his heel. However, Brian had bounded backward just in time, the kick only managing to scrape along the sole of his shoe and add some awkwardness to his landing. His hand darted into his pants pocket as he traveled through the air and out just as quickly once he had landed. Jorge burst forward, not leaving a visible gap between the sweep and his leaping advance. It was a risky maneuver that relied on his speed and the surprise of the attack to cover up the hole left in his defense. That hole proved far larger than the Hot Rod thought as the would-be hero tossed a blinding spray in his face.

Pain and lack of vision caused Jorge to whiff his punch and topple, his breath was taken from him again before he could right himself. Brian kept a sure grip on his opponent's arm as he followed up with a disabling throat punch. For his finisher, the American held the Hot Rod in a one-armed forward chokehold and looped the other arm around the other man's back, then shot his leg backward and used all his remaining might along with gravity's force to throw Jorge to the ground headfirst. Cesar, and almost certainly Brian, had seen the same throw performed countless times in the Lucha ring, but this was no theatrical play fight and seeing Jorge's body go limp the moment his skull met the floor was the furthest thing from sports entertainment, even for him.

Brian remained on the ground for a time while uncertain cheers spread out around him, breathing deliberately and trying to hide his pain. He kept his hold on Jorge, a wise but unnecessary choice as Cesar knew just how thin that padding of the ring truly was. After a moment's caution, the would-be hero quested a hand for his unmoving opponent's neck, searching for a pulse. His next exhale told Cesar he had found it. Another gesture of honor he had seen too many flashing teeth to believe.

Rising up now, the crowd lost it's doubt and drowned the newest rising start of Vemana in adoration and pesos that had been sextupled thanks to him. The act of opulence disgusted him and he paid no attention to the tidy sum gathering at his feet, casting his gaze to Santana instead. He put considerable effort into hiding his pain, but that kind of guile was far from his forte. Cesar had caught him clutching his forehead as rose from the floor, the kick taking a far larger toll than it seemed from the box seat, but interestingly, it was not the side he was kicked from. He withdrew an item from his pocket, the one he had broken to create the key to his victory, and began to idly fidget with it, attempting to look unimpressed. Why he had carried dog treats with him here, Cesar could not guess, as sand would have been easier and far more effective tool had this been his plan from the beginning.

"Think he's had enough?" Santana rubbed his unnaturally smooth chin as he glanced sideways to Cesar, both of them keeping their heads turned to the ring. The young gangster didn't meet his gaze.
"Shocked he's not dead already."
"Not what I asked, boy," Santana said without malice in his tone, but an excess of it dripping from his choice of words.
Cesar did not dignify that with any real reaction and barely gave it a response. "For now.."
That same spot, a mere speck of yellow on the side of his wisdom tooth revealed itself as he turned and shook his head at Elvis.
"Now how was that for a first day in the ring, ladies and gentlemen! The hometown hero from a town over two-thousand miles away taking out two of Vemana's best and he's still standing! Will anyone else be able to snuff out this rising star? Well, we'll all see in the coming weeks with more brutal and beautiful battles from Mr. Doomfist Dailor! Let's all give him one last round of applause tonight, lord knows he's earned it!"

Brian didn't hide his outrage and Santana didn't hide his satisfaction at that. He had little ground to argue on and barely with a leg to stand on, he begrudgingly obeyed, grimacing as if doing so agitated his wounds more than the way he'd gained them. His exit was slow and an attempt was made to make it look dignified, but the way he swerved slightly to the left when the exit was straight ahead of him stole much of its grace. No sooner than he left had the clean-up crew arrived to drag the fallen back to Morales' makeshift clinic. Without any mortal wounds, they would also be facing the indignity of being bumped back in the dubious doctor's schedule behind the would-be hero.

"So, not that I can't guess the gist of it from the look on your face, but what do you think of your new motivator?" Santana slimed with phlegm in his throat, thanks to his foul-smelling habit. Slow as the flow of battle was, it still engrossed Cesar, not that he had paid his captain much heed in less intriguing times.
"I can beat him."
Santana gave a low chuckle "Not as confident as you were five minutes ago, eh?"
"It doesn't matter how good he is, if taking him down gets me the money, I'll do it."
"Even if that means killing him?"

Santana's usual smarm was completely absent from that question and the weight of that stole Cesar's attention even as the roar of his fellow observers signaled the true start of combat. He looked to his Captain, expecting his sudden austerity to fade away with a flash of unnatural white.
"You can't be serious, not after everything you said about him being a cash cow." Cesar finally said once it became clear that yellow speck would not enter his sight anytime soon.
"People are bound to get bored if he ends up winning too much and that means less people betting and leaves the ones that still are with a guaranteed payout. Even if he doesn't, the little autist is bound to cause me problems sooner or later, I'm sure enough of that I'll bet everything those suckers lose on him once he dies'll with you."

Cesar sat in silence, unsure if he could even answer. Whether he could match his skill had never been the question, Cesar knew himself well enough to know defeating Brian was not beyond his limits but killing a human being was. He had only been a member of Los Muertos for less than a year, most of which was spent in Vemana with a few rare stints in debt collection, nothing anywhere close to the gravity of murder. Even when he had first joined out of a lack of any other sort opportunity to make it through life, he had feared the inevitable day when this would come, but if Santana kept even a one-one hundredth of his word, he would be able to leave crime behind him before it became his life.

"I take him out and it's all mine, no catch?" Cesar asked, keeping his eye on the empty arena.
"None that I can think of at the moment," Santana answered from a slit of a smile.
"And if I don't kill him, just show him his place?"
"You do half the job, you get none of the pay. Same as any business." Santana's almost plasticine features struggled to move with the size of his grin as he addressed his subordinate. It was no choice at all and the both of them knew it, but the crime lord enjoyed his games.

"How long do I have to prep?" Cesar inquired as coldly as he could manage.
"He's signed on for fifteen 'quality' matches. Guess who just volunteered to be number fifteen? He's got one down, so let's clock it at a week and a half."
Cesar was silent for a long while, a mix of roiling anger for Santana's restrictive timing and planning his equally stringent training regimen. Reading his thoughts, his captain issued a mutually beneficial order.

"Don't need to grind that hamster wheel in your head down so much planning for it, I've seen to getting you plenty of training. Who else do you think I'd trust with following up an act this good?"
Without one more word and a single glance of irritation, Cesar left for the locker room to warm up for whatever Santana thought would be captivating enough to eclipse what they had just seen. The King of Los Muertos of Dorado simply chuckled at that and took another deep hit as he leaned back, almost impatient to see how his prospect would impress him in the coming minutes.