"Again."
The keen, crisp sound of steel ringing, muscles aching pleasantly, the reverberation in the bone: all things she learned to love, because it made the process easier if she could find something– anything.
"Again."
Two more parries, her brother's blade no longer able to bruise her anymore. It was the first skill she ever mastered, and now–
"Hold."
Like a good little puppet, she stops before countering– before hitting him back. Tucks the practice sabre under her arm, stands at-ease as her eldest brother regards her with a scrutinising glare.
"You'll be ready." he nods. The only bit of praise she'd get, but better than a beating.
"When I get back from the Royal Guard Academy, I expect you to have mastered the Primary manual and begun practising plates from the Second. Understood?"
"Yes, brother."
That was the last time he'd see Shae, the last time he'd see the monster he'd created.
And he smiled at what he saw.
-Tenacity-
Her first fight, they treated her like nothing more than a wild beast. By the Northern Hell, she pretty much was at that point. Kept in a metaphorical cage, fed scraps, occasionally let loose to turn some poor fuck into a bloody puddle for a raucous crowd. She'd make some Pounds for her trouble before being walked back in cuffs and a muzzle. Next few fights were pretty much the same billing. Cut loose, just short of killing the sod that was stuck in the ring with her.
But the name "Fangs", as much as she hated it, started to carry weight in the Underground. At first she didn't know how to box, but she was a damn quick study. Less feral, more methodological, still just as savage. Moved on up from show matches to actual fistfights– the ones that carried some good money to them.
It was her fight against Bill the Bad Bobbie that it all clicked.
Up against the ropes, lashing with everything she had, no way out of that corner… and she heard them.
Cheers. Cheers for Fangs.
Cheers for her. Of all people, her.
Shae left the ring that night bloodied, bruised, damn near broken in several places… but at the same time, put back together again with a new purpose. Old Ringy– the fatcat that had held her leash, understood the way the tide was changing, too. He was a greaseball as bad as anything you'd find in a fry-trap, but at least he knew he had a real prize fighter on his roster now. Sure, he still took a huge cut out of Fangs' winnings, but moved her out of the "cage" and into a proper enough room, gave some slack to her leash, let Fangs roam the Underground knowing that she had nowhere else, nothing else.
Because there was no surprise when the family cast her out, stripped her of her name and lineage. The shaming, the manhunt, the streets, none of that broke her down– it was the lack of purpose that really did her in.
And now she had purpose again. Even if that was to rattle skulls for show, even if that was to hurt people for money, she had at least something to focus on.
A three swing combination ending with an upper that cuts the damn air with how swift she throws it. Exhale the built up steam, but keep enough in the tank for the match. Another combination against the faded shadow on the wall, body-blows ending with a left hook past where she kept her own guard up. If that kinda hook connected, woulda knocked her damn block off.
Exhale the steam, build it up again. Over and over, so deep in her own head that she can't hear the Loudmouth of the arena. It's not until someone comes into the ready room to fetch her that she's pulled from the endless cycle.
"Durg's match is over. Fangs, you're up."
She barely notices him, just nods in response. All she brings into the ring is fresh bandages over her hands for wraps, a bottle of barely drinkable water, and a metric fuck-ton of hate. It's a ritual walk through that dark hall, the split second thoughts to match as she sees the body being dragged from the arena, the dirt being swept in to cover the blood.
Durg lost. Oh well, they'll find another to replace him.
"And our reigning Blood-Knuckles champion. You know her, you love her! Fangs!"
The cheers… the cheers purse her lips. She feels the twitch of the upper lip, the clenching of the jaw so tight that it trembles, the loathing for everything pulling her namesake to the fore. Fangs stalks to the ring with a sneer on her face, only acknowledging the crowd above with cold, unblinking eyes.
Cheers though. Cheers for the beast that had mauled twelve others. Would tonight be her thirteenth, or was she the one who was going to taste blood and dirt? How many of them were cheering just because they wanted to see her get a taste of her own medicine? That thought cycles through her head like a caustic poison, pumps the adrenaline, stokes the hatred.
The bell sounds, and Fangs launches herself forward like a freight train of violence.
She goes all out at first. Full swinging, haymaker after haymaker, but the git knows who he is up against. Slippery like a scalebeast, took that explosive beginning well enough, surviving the first ferocious flurry that got the other twelve before him. Probably thinks he'd be able to wear Fangs out once he got past that first storm.
Must see her as a mindless savage.
Pace slows as Fangs changes up. Hands a little too open, just that little bit drooped, breathing heavier not because she was exhausted, but because she was building that fire up. He comes in on the bait, jabs at her guard, tries to crack her open. Backfoot, rope him around for a few seconds–
The fist cracks off her jaw, clatters her teeth but she rolls with it, taking the opportunity to slip back and throw a right vicious cross-counter as her opponent tries to chase.
The look on that git's mug in the split-second he realises he's walked onto her fist. Catches the side of the nose, and if the tell-all * crack!* wasn't enough, she can feel the cartilage give way beneath her knuckles. He staggers, makes the mistake of taking his eyes off Fangs for just a blink, and she's on him. Right hook, left upper, body-blow after brutal body-blow as her opponent tries to curl up on himself. A vicious combination that is fueled by the cheer of the crowd, the screams for more blood to be spilled on this altar of violence.
She side-steps past the slick trail of blood on the dirt, snapping in with a whipping hook as her opponent throws a fruitless jab at where she had been just a blink ago. Three more punches, each one coming back with her hand wraps more red than before.
Two more body-blows, just crushing his guard in punch-by-punch, buckling it for the final thrust. She slips to the side once more while he's blinded, practically glides over that hard-packed soil, gets beside the git before he can pivot. A crushing hook, one that gets him in the side of the head and sends him straight down into the dirt.
The bell rings after the blood's pooled enough that he's sputtering on it.
"The winner is Fangs!" the Loudmouth hollers over the mixed cheers and angered groans. Bills start fluttering down from the grandstand cage above, but Thera doesn't go for them- bad form for the winner to take from the loser's medical pool- assuming the guy lived. Not that she cares as she shakes her hands out and leaves the bloody wraps behind. Just a curt nod, a raised fist to the fans of her particular brand of violence as she walks out of the ring and into the sorry excuse for a shower room they had.
Locker room's empty, just how she likes it. No fans, no photos, not even the handler that'd escort her back to her gilded cage. Everyone knew that until Fangs came out of the shower room, she wasn't to be disturbed. Post-fight ritual of checking her jaw, her teeth, her nose… nothing broken, nothing loose. Next she'd give herself the once-over in the mirror to check the bruises… and her back–
"You fight well." A woman's voice calls out to her from the shadows of the locker room.
It gets Thera's hair standing on end, but she doesn't let any of that show as she throws her sweat-drenched towel into the rancid pile and makes for the shower.
"You'll find out personally if you don't beat it. Shower's mine right now."
A click of the tongue answers her, and she catches where it's coming from. Corner of the room, a place that's just out of the light.
"Always fought like that, haven't you?"
Thera bites back the swelling urge to throw herself at the shadow, instead grabbing her bag and doing her best to just ignore this particularly unsettling fan. If whoever this is wanted to catch a glimpse of Fangs in the shower, well she'd make damn sure that they saw only the best bits of her- the fists.
She's about to step across the threshold when the shadows speaks up again. Low, pointed, knowing.
"If only the Wesslans could see where their youngest daughter's wound up."
Her lunge is lightning-quick, faster than she'd ever move in the ring. Clawed fingers grasping for where the throat would be, a snarl tearing from her lungs as Fangs yanks the leash within.
Except she's the one who's caught. The shadow grabs her by the wrist, drags her deeper into the dark, slams her face into the concrete wall. The grapple is quick, efficient, and effective. Arm bound up behind her back, there's little Thera can do- especially when she hears the keen clack of a steel point against concrete right beside her head.
"You one of Wellington's? Come to finish me finally?" She spits, reflexively trying to find a weakness to the hold until she feels the cold of the blade on her cheek.
"Quite the contrary. If anything… you've got a bit of a vendetta against the good Duke, aye?"
"What's it to you?"
"Straight marks in the Royal Guards Academy… barring one tiny smear on that record. Top of the fencing bracket while you were there too-"
Thera scoffs, but she feels the pressure somewhat relenting… almost as if her assailant was giving her courtesy.
"... you'd pass the close-quarters selection with flying colours, no doubt."
"Eh?"
"Only question is; 'how much of the soldiering stuck around in that pretty head of yours?'"
"And what are you on about? If you're gonna stick me, just fucking do it already so I don't have to listen to this shite. I know my own damn actions well enough!" Thera pushes back against the hold… but not with all of her strength. Just a nudge, really, a warning to see if the shadows really would let her go.
And when they do… Thera keeps Fangs from trying to rip their throat out. Well, not like she could see who is talking. The shadows are… unusually thick here- unnaturally so.
"Not much to live for besides your meagre prize-pool, aye? Practically day-to-day-"
"Whatovit?" Thera growls, eyes trying to adjust but finding nothing. Best she can do is talk to the darkness like a gods-damned loon.
"Just offering a… job. Good pay, good training, might help you… straighten yourself out again."
"You with the Penny Gang? I told your shitheel boss that I'm not-"
The shadows laugh- it's a snorting sort of chortle, and it feels practically insulting to Thera.
"Think bigger."
"The local crooked Bobbie?"
"Bigger."
"What, then? The damn Undermayor-"
"Now that's just a terrible shame." The shadow sighs. "You've been in the dark so long, you've forgotten Her Light, now haven't you?"
Thera spits on the ground, hopefully close to wherever this person's boot was. Her Light- the royal mercy, their grace, the embodiment of Victoria itself… what use did Thera- what use did Fangs have of anything noble? The last king swung from the gallows just the same as anyone else, and there was no sign of any Duke getting the crown-
"Got your misgivings, I see that."
"Understatement, really."
"But what we represent… is bigger than any one duke."
She grits her teeth, knowing the implications.
"Ain't no one wearing the crown-"
"-yet." The shadow interrupts, "but there's a chance. A chance for Victoria, a chance for you."
"Ain't hope for me."
And rather than sit and explain, Thera yanks her top off. A more thrill-seeking fan would have focused on her body– her abs and chest, the sharp curves of her waist, the sweat on her body…
But she turns, showing the bruises and scars, the telltale black crystalline sores dotting along her spine.
"Good as dead anyways."
The shadow regards her, takes in that dark smugness that Thera cultivated once she gripped her inevitability…
And Thera's stalker steps from the shadows.
Some Vouivre crone, the kind of lady that would look better wrapped with the tribal shawls of the Vouivre Alliance or a dress from a few generations back, but instead the tanned, wrinkled woman wears Victorian Army colours with an insignia Thera's never seen before. The Crown, but with a single thin-bladed knife in the centre of it, its upward-facing point serving as the tip of the royal symbol like some deadly crown jewel.
"Just the kind of soldier we look for." The Vouivre says with a regarding nod.
"Not a soldier anymore– hell I never graduated." Thera grunts moving for the shower. Maybe if she ran the water the crone would catch the hint?
"But you still have it. Got the fight in you, clearly."
The damn woman followed her into the showers, and though Thera wants to throw a punch, there is something sacred about that uniform she wears. The chance to wear that again…
And the Vourivre crone grins slyly, leaning against the threshold's frame. She's still in the dim lighting of the locker room, not daring to step into the light of the showers… but when Thera looks at her, it's like the old Vouriver's outline loses its definition.
"Give it a mull, Shae. You've got too much talent to let rot in the Undercity. Victoria's gonna need that kind of talent sooner than later."
"Even if I'm Infected?"
"Even better if you are. Makes part of the training easier."
Thera's fingers dig into the shower door, the fibres of the plastic starting to groan beneath the sound of the running water. The crone grabs the knife-handle dangling from her hip, and in the next blink Thera's whipped around, fist coming for the skull.
The skull that is just a murky outline of black against black, insubstantive, a damn shadow. The snap punch catches only smokey air, and when Thera stumbles, the Vouivre reappears, lunging in with a headbutt that sends Thera flat on her back and seeing stars.
And the Victorian soldier unceremoniously tosses her sheathed dagger onto Thera's stomach.
"You want back in, come to the Achnacarry Plate checkpoint. Bring the knife." The Vouivre says, giving Thera an informal salute before vanishing into the dim light as quick as she appeared.
The knife's a simple, but brutal thing. Long, thin blade, width no more than her thumb's. She could tell it was meant for a quick shanking; could get through clothes, between ribs, deep enough to reach the heart…
The tip digs into the dirty wood of the bar, Thera holding it upright with just her fingertip. Gives it a spin, temporarily distracted by the way it flashes in the dim light. Wasn't the finest steel, wasn't flashy or gaudy, just good enough. Good enough to end a life.
Not unlike herself, really.
"Mind not scratching my bar, Fangs?"
"It's seen worse."
Though she speaks gruffly to the barman, he's always done right by her, so she obliges the politeness by sheathing the thing. Smelly Richard nods his thanks before sliding Thera a shot glass filled with amber poison. She questions with a sharp glance, and the pudgy Perro man nods.
"Made a good silver off the fight, payin' it forward."
Thera scoffs, downing the shot and clacking the glass down before the fire even hits her belly. Burns on the way down– but she suppresses the urge to cough by asking, "What were the odds?"
"Three-to-one, your favour o'course." Richard shrugs with a toothy grin, "I always take the sure bet."
"Big risk putting that much silver in."
"Always take the sure bet."
Thera snorts.
No such thing as a sure bet. Some day, there's going to be another pugilist younger, crazier, or more talented than she, and it's gonna be her being dragged out through the dirt.
"What's that about? Figured someone like you doesn't need to carry a toothpick." Richard motions at the leather-wrapped knife.
"Gift from a fan."
"Right-wicked fan."
Thera falls silent a moment, lets the white noise and heady smoke of the bar help unscramble her brain. Richard's a patient bloke though, one of the good ones, she has to suppose.
"Any folk poking around the borough lately? Stiff types?" Thera asks offhandedly, sliding the glass back along with a few coins.
"What, like noblewhores?"
"Grey-and-tans."
Richard sniffs, pouring another shot before sliding it back to Thera.
"No more than the usuals. They seem more… busy than ever."
"Another sweep?"
"Nae. S'more like they're… tired. Run ragged. Like a steam engine that's gone too long without a tuning. I'd put money on something big coming… but not a sweep of the undercity."
Thera downs the shot, feeling the fire spread, hissing as the steam comes back up through the throat.
"Sure bet?"
"Always."
Thera clicks her tongue as she rolls the shot glass back and forth beside the knife. Same kind of knife from that old Hornsy's patch.
Achnacarry Plate was a whole burrough over, and as complete as the Underground ran, there was no direct line to that particular district. Meaning she'd have to walk the streets, she'd have to cross turfs, she'd… have to risk coming to Wellington's attention.
Five years and she was still scared of having her throat slit in broad daylight. Five years of becoming a right fucking menace of the Underground, and she was still jumping at shadows. Shite, that Hornsy from earlier in the evening practically was a shadow. She can't help but glance at that knife again, curiosity tickling even more.
"Might be going on a bit of a… sabbatical. Let some new talents grow up a'fore I make a grand comeback. Maybe the odds'll even out then, get you some more silvers on that 'sure bet.'"
Smelly Richard keeps wiping that long-dried pint in his hands, not even looking away from the broadcaster above the bar.
"Old Ringy know yet?"
"Nae."
"He's gonna miss his prize fighter."
Thera slides a few more coins down the bar, but keeps her shot glass tipped.
"He'll be the first one to ever miss her."
The Perro barkeep glances only once, a warning and farewell in one mean look. He could buy her a few hours.
She knows– she leaves, there's no coming back to the Underground. Always saw knives in the dark… but if she ever came back, they really would be there, waiting for her.
But… that damn Vouivre's words stuck in her head like a fukken needle, bleeding her uneasy contentment dry.
No, she leaves her last fistful of paper and silvers on Smelly Richard's bar, mutters something about him using it to pay off the scratches, before she grabs the knife and shoves it in her jacket pocket. Assuming no deader comes to stop her, she'd make it to Achnacarry in an hour or two of walking, just before sun-up.
The only ones out at this hour are gangers and prowlers, and they know to leave Fangs alone. Everywhere she steps is her turf, and she carries that confidence all the way to the street.
But the streets… have light. Her light, buzzing gently, illuminating the nocturnal beast that dares to step out of the Underground. She's nothing like anything the civilised side of Londinium would acknowledge– ragged, matted hair frazzled and uncared for, torn jeans that don't fit without a belt, dirty bloodstained tee– and not all of those stains old, a beaten black denim jacket that she hunches under like a fangbeast constantly on edge with hackles bristling. No, nothing like the posh, gormless knobs that she…
That she used to be just like.
She passes another streetlamp, wincing at the light that burns her bleary eyes.
She used to be… able to walk in the light.
Maybe she'll get another chance, maybe she'll cock it up just like everything else– but she'll never know unless she gives it a damn try.
With no one else in the miserable life to owe anything to, she owes it to herself.