Chapter 16: Pack Animals

Brian had felt worse pains in the past. He wouldn't even need to leave this week in his memory to find one, but the ignominy of this one trumped them all in his mind. It was a simple tactic, brilliantly simple, and not one the average thug would have the dexterity to make use of, but then again, the whole point of this sullen pit was to foster such skills. Still, it had been the courier's own carelessness that made it an effective stratagem; his boundless aggression to strike at the first opportunity had shattered half the bones in his hand. Only his second day within Vemana, and 'Slugger' Salazar was primed to give him his first loss with a southpaw feint leading Brian's counterattack straight into the steel of his bat.

He staggered back, trying to weave away from an attack that never came. The Slugger simply returned to the ready, bouncing his bat off his shoulder. He was clad in a varsity jacket from a school he'd never heard of much less attended, a large felt letter L stitched over the jacket's original M. His hair was short, but unkempt in a dirty brown wave that contrasted against the bright green of his eyes and lightness of his skin. Like most men of his profession, and even Brian himself more often than not, he wore a look of self-satisfaction at his work, a challenge like it had always been. Two years his senior in age, and four in his experience within Vemana, Salazar could have brought him low even without his namesake.

Brian couldn't pretend like he was being treated unfairly. He had been warned that rules were non-existent and the failure to walk in sufficiently armed was his own. His earlier plan of an early surprise win via his throwing arm and wrench faltered immediately thanks to a simple bunt. Even aiming for his legs, the Slugger's reflexes were simply too acute and the act did not exert him in the slightest, leaving no opening. The half-minute of false starts that followed the would-be hero's blunder ended with Salazar making the first swing, which Brian had managed to stay only by the barest margin. His attempts to grapple the weapons away had been met with a kick to the ribs which grounded him and a downward smash which he had just narrowly rolled from, only to lose a hand in the first strike after recovering.

Like always, the shame burned hotter than the cracks in his bones and the tears in his muscles. Brian had held that, for all his many flaws, his skill as a fighter eclipsed them all and justified his existence. Another belief that Alejandra would chide him for, but one he had no plans to hide from her. Lies and obstinance had done him no favors, his hand the latest casualty of them, he had little reason to keep hiding behind them going forward. She had been brazen enough to suggest that they take advantage of where his flaws had led him, that alone was worthy of respect, but in the moment he began to doubt his skills were enough to deal any damage to Vemana itself.

The roar of their amoral audience, something he had managed to tune out before, now wormed its way into the grey trenches of his brain and echoed in his skull, urging him on. The anger in his blood beat to the same rhythm, refusing to accept defeat and demanding to see Salazar's. It was madness, his more refined senses told him as much, though he had ignored them to feel the rush again in the past. But here was a different story; between Alejandra's impassioned pleas and the simple logic of the state he was in, he would not obey. The nine-millimeter mark in his head pulsed with pain, almost as punishment for denying himself, and he was not quite logical enough to assume that was not the case. Dire as things were, he had not lost yet, and there wasn't a cell in his body that would yield.

His weapon of choice had failed him and his natural skill had done worse than that, but he still had the option of resorting to the time-honored tradition of cheating. It was, technically, not against the rules after all, his or Vemana's. The only way to fight fair, in his opinion, was to use every tool at your disposal to achieve victory. Honor was nothing but a handicap in a real fight. It would hardly be the first time he had bent the unspoken code of combat, given how many future generations he had smashed in their homes. As it happened, his improvisation in the early morning had gotten him thinking up ways to get an upper hand in with underhanded tactics. Recalling one of many Lucha matches he had poured over in what little downtime he gave himself, he had a look through one of Panadería Las Nieblas many cupboards after he had been, predictably and deservedly, chewed out by the elder Colomar and find just the tools he needed.

Here, with the Slugger staring him down, however, it was useless to him. He needed some way to divert his attention and there were few ways to do that without entering the strike zone. Despite all normal logic, Brian's broken hand did lend him something of an advantage in that his hand being worthless made the whole arm expendable. The agony of splintering hand bones was still fresh and he did not relish the idea of feeling it elsewhere, but he saw no other choice and ducked low.

He charged toward his enemy, who had not expected him to be back on his feet so soon, and used the instant of confusion to secret a hand to his pocket and back. The Slugger, while surprised, was not unprepared and, using his superior height to his advantage, sent down a wide crushing blow to stop the courier. This, however, was all part of the plan. The pain was unbearable and his mouth leaked green as his body forced him to grunt as he bit down, only just managing to keep his footing. Not a moment after a second set of his bones were broken, he turned his head and sprayed a green mist directly into the eyes of his opponent.

Not hesitating for even an instant, Brian struck hard for Salazar's bicep, forcing him to drop his bat. The Slugger's grip faltered, the weapon slipping from his hand, but before it could hit the ground, two hands shot out, one to claim the other to reclaim. One-handed as he was, it was an uphill battle to keep the weapon for himself, made all the worse by the Slugger swiping at him in the awkward angle he was forced to take to endure his grip did not leave him many ways to attack and still keep it.

Likewise, there was little he could do once Salazar found the sense to start kicking, something the supposed hero hadn't the distance or flexibility to avoid. The strength was lacking and the technique was virtually non-existent, but it was enough to make him lose his claim on the weapon. Rather than pull it back from Brain's now dubious hold, the young man of Los Muertos thrust it to the ground with a distinctive ping and, with a deftness that even the audience was amazed by, pivoted and swung his body to deliver a flying kick to the courier's back.

It was getting hard to tell the difference between his many pains, but as far as Brian could tell, three of his ribs and two discs in his spine had been bruised by the kick and he'd bashed his chin on the fall. The agonizing salt sting in his mouth told him he had another wound in his gums but rolling on his back let him see he wasn't about to get more. His own blend of Asian mist had done well in blinding the Slugger, who was bent over his bat, trying to scrub the tainted food dye out of his eyes. As much as the would-be hero wanted to seize the opportunity, he was struggling to stand, any idea of attack was a waste.

The both of them staggered back to the ready, edged on by the rumble of the crowd, neither as prepared as they wanted the other to believe. Brian couldn't feel his arm at all now and even the slightest movement sent pain coursing out his spine to every other inch of him. Salazar was at least half-blind, barely able to open his eyes by more than a slit and the blow to his arm clearly still lingering, but still far more capable than the would-be hero. Brian, still stumbling over in his attempts to stand straight, knew victory would be impossible from here, yet he kept moving forward. From blood to soul, surrender was not something in his being. "If I go, I go down fighting…" He wanted to say out loud but lacked the strength to.

The cheers of the crowd seemed more insulting than Brian usually found them. They must have known as well as he did that this was a forgone conclusion, but from the splash zone to the high rises, greed and bloodthirst knew no class. Had he the choice, he'd be running wild through the stands, tearing indiscriminate rage like the pit dog they labeled him as. If Alejandra was right, he wasn't the only one here with that title that shared the sentiment, potentially even the one attempting to stare him down, but any thought of sympathy for him was absent from the courier's mind.

Both hands on the grip of his bat, the Slugger charged in to make his final, brutal assault. Brian still couldn't properly stand and the sudden need to dodge sent him floundering to the ground in his efforts to maneuver his body. He wasn't even on his arms when five more discs and two more ribs were broken by hollowed steel. He couldn't stop himself from crying out in pain, not once in his time in Mexico had he done that, even in the darkest alley where none would have heard his weakness, but it had been forced from him here of all places, in front of so many subhuman spectators.

He had lost all ability to move. It was as though every fiber in his body cried out in pain when he tried. He spat blood on his quaking arm to keep himself from voicing his agony again, only to find it a bright shade of yellow. Upon later reflection, he remembered the words of Dr. Benedicto, telling of the first symptoms of overexertion his near mortal wound left him with, one of the first of which was color blindness. In the moment, he hadn't time to think about what it meant. He had to...do something. He didn't know what he could or should do at this point, but he couldn't take this lying down. However, a turn of the head showed him the boot that gave him his first defeat before he had the chance.

...

He was back in a moment, though it took him several to recognize that fact. There was no grand entrance this time, no metaphors he had to traipse through, the eye just hovered there, judging him as always, somehow he knew it was disappointed. Even here the pain didn't leave him here, His body felt limp and suspended as if he was being forced to stand. A low rumbling filled his skull, not painful but hardly pleasant, and though it came without voice as always, he knew that wretched laugh.

...

He awoke just as suddenly, his agonies mercifully dulled, but all too present. Harsh light filled his eyes and a soft electrical buzz greeted his ears as he awoke. He lifted himself up to take in his surroundings, straining his weight against his weakness with every movement. The room was a clutter of barely organized medical equipment of varying quality, yet was kept uncharacteristically pristine. He could hear the distant sounds of a holovid of Vemana's next bout coupled with the quiet rhythms of a man taking swigs from a tequila bottle. That placed Brian in the office of the dubiously certified Dr. Morales, the old man tasked with keeping the pit dogs from exiting their contracts before Santana willed it.

He had only spoken to the aged drunk once in a conversation that lasted four sentences, where the would-be hero's pride only allowed him to ask for an ice pack and two name-brand pain relief pills after his first taste of Vemana. Given how poorly his fight against the slugger went, he could not deny he had needed much more than that. A light twinge of pain jolted through his arms when he flexed his fingers, but he could still use them and that's all that mattered. Despite all appearances, Morales was a skilled practitioner of medicine, Brian even being able to stand was proof of that. A quick glance at a nearby holoscreen told him it was just past one in the morning, only three hours since the fight. He could stand straight, walk forward, and see red again, that was enough for him.

He sat at the bedside for a time, digesting what had happened. He had failed, by any metric he had failed, for the first time in a long while. He never considered his first brush with death to be a loss. His sacrifice had enabled Alejandra to win the fight for the both of them, something that he valued even more now as he roiled in the shame of defeat. He didn't know what to do with his extreme emotions, he wanted to lash out, to vent his anger with random violence on the delicate equipment around him. He knew that wouldn't change anything, but what kept him from acting out his childish spite wasn't common sense, it was Alejandra. His harsh flow of emotion and their last conversation made him realize she had been right about him using heroism as an outlet for his impotent rage. His brief desire for aimless destruction was just the latest piece of evidence, he had to be better than this, for his own sake as well. But at the moment, he just wanted to be alone while he mulled over his failings.

"Just gonna check myself out, if that's good." Brian announced in the vague direction of the sound. The rhythm broke and the soft thud of a near-empty bottle being let down signaled its end. "Hang on", the dubious Doctor ordered. Age weighed on him more than the courier's wounds had if his grunts of effort were any indication. Morales was a man deep into his fifties and looked every hour of his age. Stress and drink had rendered his slicked hair a stark grey, and the look and smell of him indicated that tequila drank most of his funds.

"In four hours, start spreading this wherever you still have muscle pain or you'll tense up on your next fight.", he said, extending a hand-sized jar of muscle ointment.

Brian was hesitant to accept, not because he doubted his intent or competence, but because he couldn't help but hear an insult that wasn't there. Normally, that would be enough to make him storm off, but that would have proven little and he was more intrigued by this plan Alejandra thought they could form than he was in saving face. A man of Morales' age and experience would be a venerated library on the denizens of Vemana and Los Muertos beyond. He never had rated his tact and social skills highly and as such, Brian wasn't sure how or even if he could get any of that precious information from a man who likely had no choice but to remain loyal to Santana.

The would-be hero accepted the old man's offer, "Will do."

It was Alejandra's job to do the deeper planning; his was to slum it in the field and get information so there could even be a plan. He would be spending a lot of time here, there was no reason to rush now.

"And take it easy on the other kids," Morales added with a stern tone "Skulls aren't thicker than the floor and biotics ain't magic. Those last two may not have been a close call, but it's not worth the chance." Brian had to agree with that, but he suspected their reasons were very different. He did, however, see a chance to gain some of the old man's knowledge. "I'll keep that in mind. They doin' okay?" "They're fighters, same as you, they'll manage. Not easy to hold things against people down here, but the way you fight might change that."

Normally, he would snap back at that, but Brian held the edge of his tongue for the sake of his mission.

"I don't have much of a choice, that mannequin wannabe said I owe him fifteen quality fights and I'm only down one unless he counts this, which he's too much of a rat to do, I'm just gonna guess. Figured it was the same for everyone else." The old man snorted in amusement "You're not that far off, I'll give you that, just don't get ahead of yourself. People who fight stiff tend not to last long, this is still a gang after all, and one you're not in at that."

"Yeah, I've been hearing a lot how I don't plan ahead." He reached up and parted his hair, tapping his bullet scar for emphasis. "How's it doing, by the way? Can't be good since I lost color for a second."

"There's your answer, boy" Morales said, glancing impatiently at his bottle. "You probably shouldn't be out of bed, much less taking hits straight to the head. One more reason not to get on anyone's bad side down here."

Brian nodded slowly, "I know, but like I said, I didn't have much of a choice. I'm not exactly looking for trouble anymore." He said, licking his teeth. "You got any ideas on how to keep me out of it since you're so interested?" Perhaps the well of knowledge could be tapped now, this was, after all, the most opportune time for it.

"You ever try being a different color?" Morales said dismissively. "That tends to be the biggest problem they have whenever we have a foreigner down here."

Despite the dubious doctor's equally dubious advice, there was enough truth in it to set Brian's mind in the right direction.

"That's the least surprising thing I've heard all day. You take it easy, old man."

"Way ahead of you, kid." He said, knocking back his tequila once again as Brian made his exit.

He made his way out of the infirmary, trying to look casual, but the lingering tightness in his back made that near impossible. He kept his mind busy and away from the pain with planning and pondering, his previous want to be alone already forgotten. Whether Morales suspected something or not, his off-hand jest was meant to dissuade him from socializing with his fellow pit dogs, something Brian was specifically heading off to do now. Crude as he had put it to Alejandra, Brian was legitimate in his lack of confidence in his social skills, but he might have found a way to circumvent that. Hate and prejudice had surrounded him in Oakland, it was sadly common for young men to fight and kill each other just for being a different color from one another. Brian knew the real issue lay in the poverty they all shared and the cultures they didn't, any man of any color there would admit the same then claim it made no difference in the next breath.

In a way, he had the same problem, as Alejandra had pointed out, they would rather lash out at each other and scapegoat their problems in any direction other than inward. All it would take is a change of perspective, a moment where the world offered them another choice, just as he had. As Brian already understood and Morales reaffirmed, centuries of hatred made it impossible for most this deeply molded by it to see him as anything other than his melanin count, but that is where the secret lay. He couldn't change his race, but he could shorten the cultural divide.

In many ways, there would be little difference, Mexican and Californian culture had been intertwined for decades and Brian much preferred the former. The nature of the racial strife in Oakland and the outburst half his life ago made him well acquainted with it. To his dismay, those just as prejudiced as his grade school bully became his only choice for companionship through the rest of it. He hated that he'd been forced into friendship with those who only valued him for his violence and counted himself lucky that they soon became bored of him once it was never repeated, but he had learned a great deal of intimate knowledge of their culture's darker underbelly. As such, he knew well enough the sort of man they expected him to be and the one he would need to be for them to accept him. He had to keep one simple rule in mind, one he already kept close to heart in many ways: Cero Miedo; Zero Fear.

The first sign of weakness, the barest hint of reprehension, and they would tear him apart like a pack of wolves. However, his overt hostility had yet to be any help to him and Morales was almost certainly correct that it was bound to do the opposite. Alejandra had inadvertently given him the answer he needed, to think of them like dogs, or rather, like the wild dogs that roamed his town. Savage and territorial to those who understood nothing about them, nobler than any person to Brian, he considered their only crime to be survival and respected them for it. In many ways, these wayward gangers weren't all that different.

He entered the over-furnished locker room without regard for keeping profile, high or low. There was no reason to seek out conflict when he knew that being in the room at all was enough for it to find him, even ignoring his skin, he had reputation enough to still be a target. A quick scan of the room proved him right, as nearly a dozen of the gangers kept their attention pinned on him as the would-be hero made his way across the room. Only one face caught his own attention, that of 'Hot Rod' Hernandez mid-way through styling his wet hair into his signature, and very impractical for his occupation, pompadour. Brian pretended not to notice any of his potential aggressors and made his way to his locker.

He retrieved a cheap, beaten pleather wallet and withdrew a single peso before locking it back up. He walked to the back wall where a pair of vending machines waited, he wasn't hungry or thirsty, despite the day he'd had, but that was hardly the point. Faint muttering met his ears in between a trio of beeps from the machine, yet none had so much as stood since he had entered. A bottle slid down the chute, he'd paid little attention to his selection, but he was pleased to have dodged the empty sugar drinks. As he reached down, he heard a slow rise in between the background chatter and a purposefully loud stride drawing closer. "Long day, asshole?"

It was Hernandez, having hastily thrown a jacket over his bare chest, his posture and demeanor made it clear he was still sore over his loss and looking to save some face. That was more than understandable, Brian himself still held the desire to explode over his own failure, only barely restrained by common sense. Despite the hostility, the Hot Rod was someone Brian wanted on his side, his victory against him had been by the narrowest margin and only came by the underhanded tactics that were likely at the heart of his anger. Besides, anyone with the reputation of being one of Vemana's best would be useful for their plan. "Yeah, 't's what I get for not cheating hard enough."

Hernandez was caught off guard by the admission, "Not even gonna pretend you're not a shitbag?"

"Nah." Brian remarked bluntly as he started walking back to his locker. The taller, stronger Hot Rod grabbed his shoulder and forced him back in his path.

"And you think we're just gonna be fine with that?" Clearly, he'd been doing a poor job of de-escalating things, but the truth, by Brian's reckoning, would be enough to bring the other man around.

"Well, yeah. The fat guy said there weren't any rules, so I just went with it. If anything I should've been doing it more since walking in with a bat is an option."

"Salazar's upfront with his bullshit, you're just an underhanded little shit who can't win a fair fight!" There couldn't be a more obvious double standard, but Brian knew arguing the non-existent logic would be a dead end.

"I know. That's why I don't fight fair. If you cheated even half as much, you've won easy."

"And Concita? You still gonna act like a big man when you beat the piss out of girls with a smile on your face?!" It didn't seem like a personal offense on Hernadez's part, just outrage that he had struck a woman at all. Another bit of logic he never fully understood.

"Hey, complain to the plastic prick about that, I didn't want to fight her, but a fight's a fight and it's not my fault if I start feeling the rush. She almost ripped my eye out, it's not like she didn't have a solid chance. 'Sides, she walked in the ring herself, she probably didn't want to, but that's still on the botox bandito upstairs. He didn't even count the fight off my time, probably gonna try and screw me out of this one too."

Hernandez didn't want it to, but Brian's defense struck a chord, it seemed Alejandra was more right then she knew.

"Okay, fine! Maybe that prick forced her into it, but there's a debt here and I'm ready to settle up!"

"Hey, I'm not against that. Like I said, I need some good fights to get out of here and you're the best fighter in the gang I've fought, far as I can tell. I was actually gonna try to rematch Salazar, but that's more just to get my wrench back. Shit was $12.99 new."

Only now did Brian notice their on-lookers, relatively few in number, but seemingly swayed by his case, at least those who were actually listening rather than just waiting for a punch to be thrown. The Hot Rod, however, still had too much pride in his soul to consider bringing his energy down.

"So this shit's all just a job to you, pasty?", he said, straining to make his outrage sound genuine in the face of reality.

"You're a gangster, this is literally your job. Even if we got backed into a corner, nothing changes that we gotta be doin' this. Might as well do it right, if we have to. Besides, if losing gets you this pissed, that means it doesn't happen all that much, so taking one from some shifty-eyed caucasoid who had to cheat doesn't mean a whole lot." He flipped his bottle in the air, taking it by the neck as it came back down. "We can't get personal in this line of work, far as the high riders care, we're all dogs, gotta stay as a pack if we wanna get out." He outstretched his hand, offering his small gift to the other man.

Hernandez, despite himself, was convinced enough by the courier's logic to keep him from non-professional violence, though he was unsure enough that he had to scan the eyes of his comrades to be certain he could say so aloud. " Fine…" He began, placing a tight grip on the base. "But I'm still kicking your ass one way or the other."

Brian smirked, not all of it an act, "You can try."

Sneak Peek: /watch?v=XrOWG_fodmk

Work's been taking more out of me than it usually does, so the pace of new chapters isn't about to change, sadly. I've been too scatterbrained planning the next to Acts as well, which isn't helping me much in the moment. Hopefully we get there soon because that's gonna be fun if I can pull it off the way it looks in my head.