Chapter 17: Render unto Cesar

It had not even been a full day since Salazar managed to break 'Doomfist' Dailor's streak down before it even started, and that was too long for Cesar. His pride demanded that the American to steamroll Vemana until their rematch, for him to justify his earlier loss and reclaim his dubious honor. Reality denied him that, the Slugger proved to be the better fighter, even without his superior weaponry, his skill had won him the day. And for that, Cesar had challenged him to a match.

To call them friends would be a base exaggeration, but the two young men knew each other well enough and respected their mutual talents. There was no outrage or anger at the challenge. Even before Cesar explained himself, the Slugger understood. Wounds in pride were common, as were the attempts to suture them at the risk of adding more, and Vemana's very nature demanded constant climb to the top of the social ladder. Even the American realized this, as he had gathered from Jorge and their upcoming rematch, though how he was able to convince the Hot Rod to see him as worthy of one escaped him.

Regardless, pride wasn't his only motivation to seek this fight. At any moment, Santana could decide he didn't need the American anymore and would force him to be the axeman to pay his own debts. Undoubtedly, the crime lord would want to kill two birds with one stone and have the hit take place in the ring and make it as fair as anything could be in Vemana. If he could defeat Salazar, then by default, he could beat this would-be hero. He was wise enough to know that sort of logic had little bearing on reality, but he needed some way to take more glory and he doubted the audience knew how little it truly meant. The louder they cheered, the better his pay and more they would.

It had hardly been the first time they had faced off, but this would be the first where they didn't go in evenly armed. Cesar had opted to be barehanded rather than meet bat with bat, though he did keep his knife close to his heart as always. He doubted he would need it and wished to avoid using anything but his own hands to drive the point as far as possible. Had this Dailor been half as practiced in his unnamed martial art as he was, he would have won handily before the thought of being underhanded occurred to him. Just one more thing in his long list of things to prove in these next few minutes.

He fidgeted around with the knife in his pocket, waiting impatiently for the signal to enter. He ran a thumb over the engraving of his name, dwelling on what it meant. The name and blade were his late father's before they were given to him, the latter by the same man who kept him locked down here in debt. Before he was wise enough to disdain Santana, the gang's leader had gifted him the keepsake along with the Hobson's choice of filling the void his father left in Los Muertos. What little of his family that was still alive was in no condition to make a wage they could live on and crime was practically the only work in the whole town. Even then, with all his talent, effort, and forced loyalty, it was barely enough to feed and shelter his sickly grandparents and young cousins.

Every other able bodied member of his family had been taken by long ago by the ongoing gang wars with the Guatemalans, the Colombians, and the thousand other competitors their syndicate faced. In the grand scheme of things, him, his family, and in some ways, the whole of Los Muertos were insignificant in the scope of the eternal crime war, but they all had to play the hand they were dealt in the end. Jorge's story wasn't much different, as was the case for most in the gang, they could either starve to death in poverty or join the only organized crime family in town. Even going legit wasn't an option for them, the outrageous protection fees were easier paid working for them than paying in full. There was no way out of the game, only up the ladder.

The great door of the entryway slowly receded back to the ceiling with a slow, sickening mechanical whine. The crowd was ecstatic as always, impatient to see young men that should be in high school beat each other half to death. As if he needed more proof that there was no escape, the rest of the world lined up in droves to feed off their hardship and misery for their own pleasure. Depriving them of that was one more reason to end this as quickly as possible.

Elvis was already part way through his newest variation on the young gangster's introduction as he ducked his head through the needlessly slow door.

"-The sly street dog that'll gut you like a hog, Cesaaaaaaaaar Rammmmmmmireeeeeeeeez!"

Despite his status, Cesar had little issue with the former champion, specifically due to that fact. He was one of the few at the upper echelons of the gang that truly understood the pit and what it meant to fight and die there. More importantly, he was living proof that there was a way up from these depths, all those within Vemana, trapped or otherwise, craved that same status in the end.

Salazar was already in the ring, leaning casually into his bat, looking contemplative rather than his usual cocksure. The Slugger knew Cesar was no fool yet walking in unarmed against him was the telltale sign of one and so he tempered his attitude and ran through the whys in his head, Cesar could read that much in an instant. He couldn't deny that he was being a fool, but he was a fool with a plan foolish enough to create a double negative. He entered the ring, tuning out the roars of approval, revealing nothing of his intentions physically. Salazar's uncharacteristic caution played right into Cesar's hand, it was very much his plan to force the Slugger to fight defensively to cover his disadvantage.

The bell rang out and already his plan was bearing fruit. Salazar lazily picked up his bat, holding it at his side, trying to make it look like his guard was down. Cesar was too wise for that, even without having watched him fight before, The Slugger intended to block the moment he saw the first punch coming. The young thug fought fire with fire, walking casually toward his opponent, hiding the subtle preparation to take a fighting stance, somewhat redundantly as his collision course made his intentions were obvious. They had the same strategy regardless, the two of them were defensive powerhouses, whoever struck first would be the loser.

He was close now, just within batting range, but Salazar still had yet to move. Cesar was too seasoned to fall for his ploy, The Slugger did not intend to strike with his namesake until he was absolutely certain the blow would land. That was the ultimate secret of the senior gangster, the bat wasn't there as a weapon so much as it was a psychological tool, a shiny piece of metal to distract you from his fists. The American had fallen for that trap, even he had in the past, but he had surmised many ways past it and he had run through each one in his head well before he had even declared the challenge. The crowd would be violent in their disappointment, but this would be his win and it would come hard and fast.

He was in the perfect range now. Salazar realized it too, trying to hide his grimace at his own failure to act. Well away from a punch and too close to get a good bat swing in, Cesar enacted his plan. He lashed out with a quick low kick aimed for the other man's shin, taking stance mid-action near instantaneously. Salazar was faster, sliding his bat in the path of Cesar's own shin a split moment before it could connect. The pain was nothing to him. His plan worked perfectly and he punched the now open Slugger straight in the nose. Though he was forced to take a step back involuntarily, the Slugger was hardly disoriented, pulling his bat straight up to block a fist headed for his groin.

Cesar kept the power in that blow to a minimum, knowing this would happen, and suffered no damage to his hand. He turned that hand on the wrist and took hold of the bat, not to pull it away, but keep it in place while he kept hammering on with his other fist. He landed three more solid hits to his face before the Slugger took a hand off the hilt and sent it into Cesar's gut. He had predicted for this too, but he had overestimated his own constitution and faltered by the second hit. He lost his grip on the bat, he didn't struggle to reclaim it, Salazar had the advantage in taking it, but was still disoriented and far from fit to counter attack.

The crowd was ecstatic, still under the impression that the fight had only begun when it was nearing its end. Granted things weren't going quite as planned, but things had gone well enough from Cesar's perspective, he may have lost his wind, but he was still on his feet while Salazar struggled to stay on his. The four punches he had taken straight to the skull robbed him of his balance, nothing he couldn't recover given a moments rest, but that's something Cesar would not allow him. He shook off pain and took a sharp breath, charging in as he did so.

Salazar lifted the bat to his shoulder but a moment before Cesar started his move. He would be in range to attack in only a single second, yet the Slugger waited for half of it. Only when Cesar was well with the reach of that bat did he make his attack, denying him the room to evade. When he swung, he aimed center of mass to ensure a hit, even a glancing blow, to buy himself more time to recover. His timing was perfect, his aim was true, but nothing he could have done at that point would have mattered. Cesar leaned into the swing as it came for him, and with unmatched dexterity, caught the blow and threw his momentum into a flying knee, using the bat for leverage while pulling the slugger down.

Salazar had no way to dodge and took the full force to the blow direct to his temple, losing his grip on his way to the floor. Cesar snatched it away the moment it was free and stood over his foe. He pinned the Slugger down with a knee on the small of his back, a foot on his arm, and a bat throttling his windpipe. He tried to struggle, to push the steel from his neck with his free arm, but there was no fighting back at this point. Salazar let his hand fall and slapped his open palm on the floor, admitting defeat to a now hostile audience.

Wins by submission, while an accepted form of victory according to the loose rules of Vemana, were far from preferred by spectators and through them, Santana. That was hardly the point of this fight. Cesar had reinforced the pecking order and bandaged his pride, something that would supersede the crime lord's annoyance. He stepped off the Slugger, but kept a hold on the weapon out of an abundance of caution. Salazar stood back up, with a slight stumble, dejected at his loss, but relieved things had ended without a KO. The mix of cheers and jeers from onlookers made it impossible for them to speak, but Cesar could understand "You happy?" by reading his lips.

He smirked as a "Yes" and tossed the bat back, allowing the Slugger to keep his pride. Cesar had taken plenty of trophies already and this one wasn't worth the risk of it being taken back, not for the moment at least. Still, he kept a close eye on the other man, letting him be the first to exit the arena. Cesar took a glance up to the balcony that held his master Santana, expecting and on a deeper level hoping to see annoyance, even anger at the momentary drop in the crowd's excitement. He found an expression of amused contemplation, punctuated by an all too familiar arrogant smirk once his gaze was recognized. There was never any way to tell what their crime lord was truly thinking, only that whatever it was would be to no one's benefit but his own in the end.

He made his way out as the jeers started to eclipse the cheers, still keeping distance with Salazar, who was slowly making for Morales' excuse for an infirmary. To his pride, Cesar had no wounds to speak of and strode toward the locker room, confident he'd proven his point. They were far from alone on the shadowy underbelly of Vemana, labor crews soldiered on indifferent to them as they did with all pit dogs, the less spectative of their fellow gangsters loitered in the further corners, and, as the Slugger broke off and Cesar was alone on his path, an omnic covered in engravings crossed into it.

He had no desire to interact with the vulgar metal man, none of their gang did, even the few other omnics in their ranks. Tepoztli relied heavily on his reputation as their most talented axeman to make his rounds within Los Muertos, many would have stabbed him in the back without it and some have even tried, only to find the knife in their ribs. This, along with the more obvious reasons of his xenophobia to all but his own, made it rare for him to speak with others, even when it came to business. Cesar's first assumption was that he had offended Santana more than he'd realized and he was next on the chopping block, but he knew their boss not to be so reckless as to throw away an asset like him so easily.

"That desperate, huh?" The axeman challenged, "Risking pissing off the boss just to look better than that midget?"

Cesar didn't stop moving, he didn't so much as move his eyes in the metal man's direction, it wasn't worth it.

"'Course, he didn't look pissed…" he continued, "in fact, it looked like your dick measuring contest was part of his plan."

It was impossible for most of humanity to tell what an omnic was thinking by looks alone and Cesar was no exception, but he swore he could see a smirk on that unmoving faceplate.

"Thought you didn't watch the fights?", he finally responded. "Something about humans being too slow to be interesting."

The iron man wanted something, whether by orders on his own will, and Cesar couldn't risk not knowing what it was.

"Nah, but it's fun watching you kill each other. Wouldn't be the first time the boss ordered a hit in the ring."

"And what's that got to do with you?"

"Well, I had a long think about it and decided I'd rather see a Mutt die than Spic. Plus, he actually managed to hit me in the eye, breaking a rib or two ain't payment enough for that."

"So, what, you're here to tell me how to do it? Gonna teach me how to kill people?"

"Well, I've only killed Mexicans, so I wouldn't know anything about killing people, but that wasn't why I bothered wasting my time on you."

"Say it, then."

"Thought you might want to know that he ain't fighting the stereotype, he's proud of how much of an underhanded kike he is and he's been trying to convince that greaser to fight as dirty as he does. With you being an upstanding criminal and all, I figured you'd want to do something about it."

He was right, Cesar knew it was only Vemana's secondary purpose, but it was meant to function as a proving ground, a way to weed out weaknesses within the gang before their rivals did so in a more permanent way. While it was far from rare to see hidden foreign objects pulled and all variety of dishonorable tactics in the ring, it was far from practical to be dependent on them. Though he more often than not kept his knife close to heart, he had yet to ever make use of it in Vemana, either never needing to or never getting the chance. Hernandez was much the same, one of their best by his own merit, and Cesar didn't want that to change, much less by the hand of an outsider.

"He here yet?"

"Just back from a shakedown. The fight's not until early next morning, so you have plenty of time to think of something convincing."

"Don't need to." Cesar concluded as he walked off. "And I don't need to be told how to kill, that's my call."

"Just make it messy. That always plays well."

This year's been rough on me. I know this isn't much for how long it's been, but I've had a hard time deciding which direction to go in, a lot of the time it wasn't headed in a very good one. Hopefully I'll be back soon and this will all good smoothly again. Sneak peak at current plan for next chapter: /watch?v=vuG50q0e92s