Part of my collection of hurt!Techno Febuwhump oneshots. These can all be read as standalone.
Febuwhump prompt: Muzzled
As the sun starts to set, Phil finds himself in a city not on any map.
He's a bit surprised at the size of it. Often settlements without names would be small and unobtrusive, the offshoot of travelers too weary to continue on who turned temporary encampments into permanent homes. He'd expect farmsteads, a market square, and maybe the odd bazaar or inn. Not something as big as this. Yet the reason becomes clear soon enough.
Phil stares up at the parapets of a coliseum.
The building is made out of sandstone and hung with colorful banners, the spectacle of it almost glaringly tacky. Painful to the eye, really. Phil prides himself on knowing a thing or two about architecture and this arena is an affront to both gods and men.
It's also very much used for unlawful activities.
Because Phil is no fool. He can add two and two together quite easily and he has knowledge acquired over centuries of travel to keep him company. Why else would a city go through the trouble of hiding in the middle of nowhere and not being recorded on any maps? Why else would it be composed only of an arena and a few lodgings for temporary stay?
Phil has visited illegal fighting rings many times before. Some weren't even half bad experiences, serving as a good place to waste away a few hours and make easy coins. If a server wanted to host professional blood sports competitions, they had to adhere to a strict set of rules and vet every fighter. Hypixel was just about the only coliseum that went through those rigid procedures and had set itself apart as the spot for starstruck warriors to make a name for themselves. It wasn't entirely Phil's style, but he'd competed once or twice and it was fun.
Those that did not like playing by the official rules could come to arenas such as this - Where the fighting was just a tad bloodier and the consequences a tad more dangerous. Phil had been to coliseums where there was no age restriction on who fought, no bracket divisions to make sure rookies didn't have to face off against seasoned soldiers, and no respawn anchors in the server code so death was a permanent threat. As long as everybody was aware of these things, Phil didn't think it was his place to dictate what others did in their free time.
He walks up to the entrance, figuring it is early enough for him to pay it a visit. He's already made sure he'll have a room in a local inn for the night, he might as well see the sights. There's a big board with countless pamphlets tacked on, some haphazardly skewed and half-covering each other up. Most of them are old and faded, advertisements of fights that have long been over. A couple are more recent or even speak of tournaments yet to come. Phil reads a few out of boredom as he lines up to be ushered inside.
When he gets to the front of the line, he meets eyes with a piglin brute.
Or maybe 'meets eyes' is a bit of a generous description. It's more accurate to say that Phil stares up at it, while the piglin glares him down fiercely. Red eyes narrow, but they pass over him quickly, shooting back to the arena worker on the other side of the entrance, who is inspecting every single visitor. Probably to keep out people who have been banned for cheating before.
Phil looks at the piglin again as he waits his turn, noting the leather muzzle wrapped around its snout, small gaps in the side allowing its dangerous tusks to poke through. While Phil won't pretend to be an expert on piglin biology, he can tell this is a brute by the sheer size of the thing. It's huge, strong muscles covered in thick fur. What's perhaps more curious is that it shows no signs of zombification. It's wearing a simple set of iron armor which does not look like it's for more than show. Similarly, it has a golden sword in one hand but Phil is pretty sure this guy can snap most of the human patrons in half with ease.
And that's surely its purpose.
Around its throat sits a simple golden collar, attached with a chain to the wall beside the entrance gate. It's a guard dog, a deterrent for anybody trying to stir up trouble within the coliseum walls.
(Sadly, the use of slave labor - especially mob and hybrid slaves - isn't unusual for illegal coliseums either. Phil is glad he kept his wings safely tucked away)
The piglin brute doesn't look at him again, shifting its gaze over each person in line almost in a bored fashion. Once, it lowers the blade a little and slumps, exhausted from having to stand at attention for an extended period of time. The human who is checking patrons clicks his tongue sharply and immediately the piglin straightens its spine with a grunt. Phil looks away.
He can't pretend it doesn't sit uneasily with him but what can he do?
After being nodded onward, he enters the arena itself. It's pretty small all things considered. It looked a lot bigger from the outside, Phil guesses. There are plenty of stands for the audience to sit in and a sandy patch in the middle for the actual fighting to take place. Near the two far ends of the circle, including the end Phil walked in from, there are wooden kiosks for betting. The ledgers being kept there are thick and messy, making Phil doubt their credibility. How much of the winnings happen to fall between the cracks or disappear into the arena owner's pockets? Probably a lot of it.
Phil sits and watches the fights for a while. He doesn't place any bets but finds that he can predict the outcome of most fights nine out of ten times. As he thought there aren't any brackets and fighters take their own gear into the ring. Sometimes a clearly experienced fighter in full netherite is put up against a kid in leather armor, the crowd laughing and roaring. Everybody knows how those matches will end. But other times too, Phil just has to look a little closer. Somebody who fights with a polearm but is unsteady on their feet won't stand a chance against a ranged combatant. A bulkier person with a mace won't win when going up against lithe sword fighters.
At the end of it all, Phil wouldn't consider himself impressed with the spectacle.
He walks back out before the night is through, knowing he needs the sleep after being on the road all day. As he leaves, the notices that the piglin brute is still at the entrance. Another human has taken up the second post, but she seems more concerned with talking to a few fighters that are standing in a cluster near the noticeboard. Phil takes the opportunity to step towards the piglin, once again checking for any symptoms of zombification but finding none.
How strange…
It growls at him, chin raised a little. Its fingers clench around the handle of its sword. Phil isn't scared. If it's a guard, it won't attack him unless he's breaking the arena's rules.
But he does take pity on it.
"Here." He reaches into his bag and pulls out a few pieces of dried meat. Leftovers from another settlement he'd visited. "It's hoglin meat, actually. Pretty rare find in the overworld, but too bitter for me. You might like it though."
The piglin blinks at him. Then it reaches out its hand, palm facing upward. Phil puts the dried meat into it and the piglin shoves it into its pocket quickly, chuffing softly. It then reaches into its other pocket and pulls out a small piece of gold. When it hands the gold to Phil, he notices it's a chipped piece of armor. He turns it over curiously.
"Thank you," he says.
He hadn't meant it as a trade. If anything, he was only trying to show some empathy, a small act of kindness for a creature he wasn't sure he could help any other way.
"Hey!" Somebody steps between them - the other guard. She reaches up and grabs at the piglin's collar, pulling it down to her level. "Don't bother the patrons, you wretch!"
Phil swallows, awkwardly raising his hands. "No, it's alright, I was just curious." He clears his throat. "It's not often one would see a piglin in the overworld. Normally they would zombify…"
"Yeah, this one is blessed by the Blood God or whatever." She pushes the piglin away slightly, making it stumble back with another pained grunt. Phil can see in its eyes a sort of anger, a desire to rip the woman's throat out. But it doesn't do anything.
"The Blood God?" he asks. It's not a deity Phil has ever heard of. Maybe he should ask Kristin later?
"Some Nether thing. Honestly, I haven't paid much attention, the boss just bought it to help look over the place. It's pretty feral though. If it were my choice we'd put it down and just use human guards but you know how it is." She shrugs.
Phil doesn't know how it is but refrains from saying that. He bids her a quick goodbye before heading back to the inn he's staying at. He doesn't get in touch with Kristin that night, his dreams are awfully bereft of her warmth. When Phil wakes up, he feels hollow and rubs his eyes.
He could just move on but finds himself drawn back to the coliseum instead.
The piglin brute is standing guard again. Phil nods at it as he enters the arena, and feels like its eyes linger on him slightly longer this time. It looks curious, confused.
This time, Phil pays closer attention to the inner workings of the fight ring. He's not watching much of the fights themselves but follows every move of the ledgers. The cold coins are stored in boxes which are periodically emptied by people in the same uniform as the guard up front. They carry them to the other side of the ring, where there's a heavy iron door. Behind that is probably the office of whoever owns this place. On either side are smaller doors which Phil guesses must lead backstage, where the armory and such are. It's a pretty typical setup for a coliseum really, one he's seen a thousand times before.
But he also notices that no bets are being placed during the matches. Probably to prevent people from doing what Phil did yesterday and trying to judge who would win on appearances alone. They're trying to turn this gamble into a pure game of chance unless you already know the fighters beforehand.
Or if you are fighting yourself.
Phil watches as a man with short-cropped hair and a striking blue cape places a bet. It's that cape which sticks in Phil's mind, the silver emblem on the back making the guy wearing it stand out worse than a cow in a chicken pen. It's also that cape that Phil spots on the pitch less than half an hour later, going up against another fighter.
The man loses quite spectacularly. Phil knows they lost on purpose, and he's sure the rest of the audience knows too. They're practically jeered off the pitch again. And then when they turn up to collect their earnings, they smile.
Phil shakes his head. Only a fool bets against themself and throws a fight.
They're apprehended by the arena's guards immediately and dragged away, back to those doors. Phil doesn't afford it any more thought than that, expecting the man will have to pay for their crime in the form of a fine and perhaps a few lashings if they're unlucky.
But then the audience surges alive with energy, people start talking among themselves and sitting at the edge of their seats. Phil sits up too, not knowing what changed the atmosphere until he sees the same man with the blue cloak back on the pitch. They're pretty much thrown onto it by the guard who apprehended them, then their sword is tossed at their feet.
From the other end of the ring, the piglin brute steps forward.
It's still wearing the muzzle, leather straps wrapped around its neck keeping its jaws forced shut. Phil does find himself wondering what the point of that is - if it has any reason beyond being a weird powerplay. A show of dominance from humans to be able to debase this piglin to nothing more than a mindless animal.
Phil shifts uncomfortably and watches the fight unfold.
It's brutal and short-lived. The piglin is surprisingly quick for its size and definitely trained in combat. While its movements remind Phil somewhat of what he'd encounter when meeting a piglin in the Nether, it still feels very different. When he gave it the dried meat too, there was an undeniable feeling that this brute's intelligence went far beyond others of its species. Phil watches it skewer the man in the blue cape clean through, then pull its sword out and wipe it on the fabric, smearing the emblem in red.
It doesn't look at the crowd as it exits the ring.
After such a display, Phil knows he can't leave things as they are. Not in good conscience. A plan has already started forming in his mind.
And the first step is being alone with the piglin.
He waits until the final matches are wrapping up and the arena is running empty. He doesn't want to end up on the pitch as well. Instead, he hangs around the betting kiosk when the last patrons are wrapping up and not-very-discreetly pockets a few coins. He doesn't make it more than three steps before a hand wraps around his wrist.
"Where do you think you're going?" The guard who grabbed him pulls and Phil makes his body go slack, allowing himself to be dragged closer to them. He could have his knife through their eyeball in a heartbeat, but that isn't the point.
"Easy now," he says, giving a courtesy tug in response. As if he's trying to get loose but not really. "I'm just trying to make a living, mate."
"Not by stealing from us, you don't."
Phil doesn't resist as he's pulled towards that office door, though predictably the guard in front of it stops them.
"I caught this one trying to sneak off with some of our coins," the one holding Phil's wrist says, kind of shaking him around needlessly. Phil winces as it wrenches on his shoulder painfully.
"The boss isn't seeing anybody today, he's busy. Throw him in the prison and we'll decide what to do with him in the morning." The other guard waves them away.
Phil smiles to himself as he's led down to the bowels of the arena.
They do take his (more obvious) weapons off him, but he supposes that's the price to pay for what he's doing here. The man leaves him alone in a bare cell with only a wooden bench attached to the wall. Phil sits on it and waits, watching the sun set completely through a small grate near the top of the ceiling. When night has well and truly fallen, he takes one of the knives out of his boot and picks the lock, opening the iron gate.
It's not hard to find the piglin brute. There are only so many cells to check.
Its collar is once again attached to the wall, giving it a limited range of motion within its own confines. Some effort was put into making it a more permanent room for somebody to stay in. There's an actual bed, though the pillow and blanket laying on top of it are threadbare at best. There's a chair and a bucket Phil doesn't want to think too hard about what it's used for. A small faucet extends from the stones near the back corner.
The piglin is sitting on its bed, staring at the wall. Similar to when Phil first saw it, it seems to be zoning out and not paying full attention - reduced to this meaningless and bleak existence. Able to inspect it closer in the cell's torchlight, Phil notices the scars on its body. Some can be attributed to fights, but the even lines spaced on its ankles and arms speak of something more sinister. Punishments from its owners. Phil knows he has made the right decision.
When he comes up to the cell, the piglin brute notices him instantly and stands up, taking a step forward with a small grunt. Phil takes out his knife again to pick the lock.
"Don't worry, I'll have you out of here quick enough."
The piglin backs away a bit when he goes inside, eyeing him wearily. But Phil returns the knife to his belt quickly, not wanting to alarm it.
"Here, let me just…" He raises his hands very slowly, watching for any signs of aggression. If his theory is correct, this brute is not like other piglins. None of them are mindless beasts, but this one especially has shown an intellect not comparable to its brethren.
The piglin exhales through its nose, bending forward enough to help Phil reach up. Phil's fingers fumble with the straps of the muzzle. It's attached in a way that makes it very hard for even him to get it undone, there's no way the brute could have done it for itself.
Phil pulls the muzzle away, scowling at the sight beneath. The skin around its snout is marked with indented scars from how often it was forced to wear it. Its tusks are bent inward because the leather was always pressed up against them.
"That's better." Phil drops the muzzle on the ground. "My name is Phil."
The piglin brute tilts its head. Phil doesn't know if it can't talk or if being kept muzzled for too long has robbed it of the muscles needed to speak.
But Phil could swear it bends its head in gratitude and that makes him smile.
"Let's get this collar off too," Phil says, reaching for his knife again. This time the piglin doesn't act suspicious of him anymore. It barely flinches as Phil uses the tip of the blade to wrench the latch clean off.
They're out of the arena less than five minutes later, breathing in the chilly night air. The piglin stops, standing tall and looking up, at the moon sitting there like a pale disc staring down at them. The wind ruffles through its fur slightly when it opens its mouth to breathe deeply.
And it grins before looking at Phil and giving him a nod.
Together they disappear into the night.