ArchivedLogs:Sorry-Fight

Sorry-Fight
Dramatis Personae Anole, Peter	2013-05-06 Anole and Peter end up as each other's firsts. SO MANY APOLOGIES. (Part of Thunderdome.)
Location Thunderdome
It's a warehouse, or something like it; at least it's spacious, and was probably once industrial; at the moment it's largely just empty. There are tracks in the floor from long-since disused equipment and the construction of walls and high exposed-beam ceilings is sturdy. The center of the room has been excavated, since this place was in actual daily use. In the middle a pit has been gashed out of the concrete; it's not /deep/ and it serves more as a foundation than anything else; around its wide circular perimeter a cage has been erected. Nearly reaching up to ceiling-height, it is constructed of thick sturdy metal bars wrapped in a thinner wire mesh. Surrounding the cage there is a lot of empty space. Some nights, though, when fights are in session, the room is filled; with people, with cameras (though no outsiders' cameras are allowed in), with paper betting slips and folding chairs. The spotlights in the ceiling are bright-bright-bright, the better to illuminate the fighters within the centerpiece cage. It's probably nighttime. It's hard to tell because the windows in this place have all been not just boarded up but boarded up and then padded over and then boarded up again. There's a front door, somewhere, and /at/ that front door the bouncers are being as strict with their guest list as the most exclusive of nightclubs. Inside, though, once people pass through the small once-offices and corridors that stand between this room and the outdoors, there is -- not much exclusive about this place. It smells like sweat and it smells like blood and there's a lot of yelling, people taking bets on the upcoming fights, people cheering, people booing. Beer being hawked and the meaty smack of fists on flesh. One fight is just ending, a lean-muscled young man being dragged bodily out of the ring, bloody in many places from a series of spiky impalements. His opponent isn't looking /much/ better, pale and bloodspattered and liberally adorned in bruising, but at least he is staggering out of the ring largely of his own volition though the electric jolt from his collar or the baton prodding his back when he lags surely does not encourage him to /tarry/ as he's urged out a side door. There's a downtime, before the next, wherein people refresh their beers, place new bets. Snack. The audience is eclectic, some in bluecollar workboots, jeans, flannels; some people have dressed /up/ for this (pay a high price and that means it's /fancy/, right?) in suits and cocktail dresses. A strange mix, even in their reactions; many whoop and cheer, some press their lips together in an anachronistic show of discomfort with the violence. But they don't /leave/. There are a /host/ of eyes on the ring as the next pair is led up and in from their cages. Surely more than a few of them were lured here by the promise of Spider-Dude in action. It's hard to tell if they are disappointed or excited to see the man (... boy) unmasked but the murmuring in the room swells considerably. Peter's heart hammers in his narrow chest. The boy's downright terrified; in a few moments, he goes from the relative (?) quiet of the 'kennels' they keep him in to the sudden, throbbing /chaos/ of a roaring crowd - the stench of beer, the sound of laughter, so many /eyes/ - and that dull, slowly blossoming realization that they're all here - to watch him get /brutalized/. Or brutalize someone else. It's that realization that really makes his head tingle, fearful and afraid - that no one in the crowd is going to /help/ him. No one's going to stop and go 'Wait, that's just - a kid!'. But as he's shoved forward - no doubt with the aid of batons and shocks, squeaking - Peter sucks in a breath and steadies himself. Clad in his black hoodie - now almost in tatters, the t-shirt he wears underneath exposed in wide streaks of white - hair matted and greasy, his face /covered/ in those black, oil-like speckles, crowding out the rest of his skin - he darts forward, stumbling beneath those blazing, hot white spotlights. His two-toed socks coil into the ground. And as he tries to focus himself - tries to /breathe/ beneath that near-smothering presence of eyes, fighting his way through his sudden dizzying sense of abject /terror/ - he begins to mutter a very tiny mantra under his breath: "...please be that guy in the mask, please be that guy in the mask..." It is not in fact Guy In Mask; the second teenager also shoved stumbling into the ring looks about as terrified as Peter feels. Skinny-small and very green, Anole is also pretty much tattered-dirty. But he started out tattered-dirty, sewer life isn't much better for hygiene than cage life. His jeans are a grubby mess of fraying hems, his plain blue t-shirt and black hoodie both faded-old and grimy. His green eyes are huge and wide; at least at first, and then they squint up against the light. When he's shoved into the ring he doesn't go far. Stumbles forward a step or two, instinctively scrunches down to withdraw into his hood further. "Um," he says to Peter, in a small voice. "-- Hi." The cage door clangs shut behind them. The murmuring of the crowd has been getting slightly more subdued -- enough to hear the announcer inform them that this is the fight they have been Waiting For all night. The elusive SPIDER-DUDE, live and In Person, matched up against the Chameleon. The lights dim, but only very slightly. Mostly they are shifting to make for better camera angles. There's a buzzer, to start the beginning of the fight; it's loud and very /buzz/ like and almost as soon as it's gone off the cheering (jeering?) begins. "Don't just stand there /hit/ him," "Fucking terrorist isn't he?" "Oh my god, it's covered in scales." "Kill him!" "Think he's anything like his videos?" "...oh... oh, no," Peter /squeaks/, staring at Anole with - pretty much - wide-eyed horror. "Oh no no /no/, uh - we have to -" For a moment, this probably looks like it's shaping up to be the most boring fight of the night, because all Peter is doing is standing there, in front of Anole, as the buzzer goes off. The sounds of the crowd seem to - make Peter /shrink/ away from Anole. But then, he's bristling - his danger sense starting to tingle. And then: "AnoleI'm/so/sorrywehavetoFIGHT." All rushed out in a single sentence as Peter /charges/ for Anole, running hard and fast and swinging his arms open wide - aiming to just /plough/ into him and tackle him to the floor. It isn't nearly as hard as Peter can throw himself - but it's still hard enough to jostle and bruise. Peter /might/ be closing his eyes as he does this. Anole is being far less interesting about this than Peter. He just stands rooted to the spot, staring at Peter and not at the crowd around them. His hands are clenched into fists at his side. "-- Idon'twanttofightyou," he squeaks, in answer to Peter, and then -- just stands! For a moment it looks like that is all he /will/ do, just get tackled into the ground. But Peter is rushing towards him when his muscles finally unstick, and he's /springing/ up and back, leaving empty space for Peter to tackle because Anole is clinging to the bars of the cage, now, a good person-height off the ground. His hands shift metallic-coloured where he grips, though the rest of him is still very green. Still staring. "You gotta open your eyes," he is hoarse-whispering down to Peter, "you'll /crash/." Peter almost /does/ crash. But - a moment after he arrives at the spot where Anole /should/ have been - he feels that sharp, stabbing /prickle/ of danger again, along with Anole's whisper from above, and - one eye pops open. Just in time for him to rear his entire body back as he reaches the far wall, having too much momentum to stop - instead opting to run /up/ it. WHUNK, WHUNK, WHUNK - Peter's feet slam into the bars as he /charges/ up the side of the cage wall, about five feet to the side of Anole's position - his feet somehow /gripping/ the metal with every step. On the fourth step, he's as high as Anole; it's at that point that he /jumps/, backflipping off the wall and landing with a whump - crouched - about 5 feet from where he started. One knee and one hand on the ground - in a posture he's probably seen in movies, like, a /dozen/ times. "I know," Peter says - not in response to Anole's second bit, but the first one: "But they'll - /kill/ us - justPUNCHmeit'sokaypleaseDOit." He's launching himself off the floor - straight for Anole's new position. Not aiming to - punch him. Not really. It's not really clear /what/ Peter is doing besides trying to tackle / hug Anole; his arms are spread wide open as he /swoops/ toward Anole's position. One thing's certain, though - if Anole dodges this tackle-hug to the wall, Peter's not going to have enough space to stop himself from just /smacking/ into the bars. There is a lot of cheering, at this. The movie-pose is apparently a crowd-pleaser. Though the cries of "Hit him!" "Punch him!" "Fucking kill him!" are not waning. Anole /squeaks/ when he is faced with a charging Peter again, but this time he doesn't run away. He stays clinging to the cage bars, and when Peter tackle-pins him they /both/ semi-fade for a moment, striping mottled metal-mesh to blend in for all the good it does under the bright lights. Anole's hands are still clinging to the bars but finally he -- brings up a knee. Possibly he's trying to knee Peter or possibly just wriggle away; as a knee it's not a very /hard/ one but it is coming up towards a hip to try and push the other boy /off/. Sadly, Anole possesses no super strength. Just the regular strength of a skinny fifteen-year-old. Peter has one advantage: For nearly a month, he has been wrestling with /luchadors/. And in the end, as violent, graceful, and athletic as Mexican wrestling is - it's pretty much all just theater. When he hits Anole, he does everything he can /not/ to hurt him while simultaneously still trying to /pin/ him. And in that moment, when he's gripping the bars on either side of Anole's head, pushing down on him, /squeezing/ him, Peter whispers: "It'sokayjustkeephittingme." That last word gets squeaked out /just/ as Anole's knee makes contact with Peter's hip. And then - Peter puts all that practice to use. At once, Peter gasps - perhaps overdramatically! - and /flies/ back, as if he has just been /slammed/ in the stomach. Arms and legs thrown out as he makes a swan-dive for the floor; hitting it in a practiced roll -- clutching at his belly even as he stumbles to his feet, feigning brief confusion. His hand then lifts up, slowly, feeling around for the stitches underneath his shirt. Anole looks incredibly startled when his push produces this reaction. He squeaks, scurrying higher up the bars towards the ceiling. "Ohmygosh I didn't m --" he is reflexively squeaking before the words Peter whispered to him sink in. He stares downwards, hands gripping the bars tigheter. Drawing in a deep breath, he steels himself before pushing off the bars to land in a crouch a short distance from Peter. "... ohmygosh are you OK?" he whispers. Even while getting up to charge forward and throw an (also admittedly not very /strong/) shoulder towards Peter's midsection. Aiming kind of higher than where Peter is feeling. While Anole is trying to figure out what is going on, Peter is steeling himself - taking in slow, steady, /big/ breaths, fists and toes clenching and unclenching - squeezing the stitches under his shirt. And when Anole charges - Peter grimaces before he even makes contact. Because he's suddenly /throwing/ himself at Anole - aiming to just let that stitched up injury /collide/ with Anole's shoulder. When it hits, it's probably going to be much harder than Anole intended - and might even send the boy reeling back. It certainly sends /Peter/ rolling back - this time in genuine, brutal pain - falling back to the floor with a sharp, painful yelp - two or three stitches harshly torn free of the wound. Opening it. "Sssss'okay," Peter responds with a hiss, rolling up to his feet - the wound is bleeding, now, but the blood hasn't seeped through the shirt. Not yet. "I'm gonna - have to hit you - maybe hard - really sorry." He can't make Anole look too tough. He's /terrified/ that if he does, Anole's next match will be against The SkullCrushing Soul-Eater or something. "You're hurt --" Anole swallows, skittering back a couple steps for this. Though this comes with a quiet /squeak/ as his collar buzzes. He braces himself, forcing himself to look over at Peter. His hands ball up into fists and slowly rise, in what is a fairly typical defensive posture. "Okayhitme," he answers through his teeth, a little jittery-bouncy as he starts to circle Peter. Bouncebouncebounce/lunge/? It's not a very good punch that he throws, a little nervous, a little high, not much /strength/ behind it but look! He's punching. Peter drops into his own stance - the one Rasa showed him. Feet apart; hands in front of him - one close to the jaw, one lower, out in front of him. Though he's not bouncing /quite/ as much as Anole - the cut on his ribs flares with pain every time he does - he's still bouncing a /little/. When Anole lunges into that bounding punch, Peter bounces /back/ - just out of range - before lunging back /into/ range with a punch of his own. It happens fast - /lightning/ fast - as Peter drops his left hand to his waist and /rolls/ it up his side, pulling his hoodie and t-shirt up with the gesture - exposing, for a brief moment, a long stretch of ribmeat, most of it splotched with that chitinous skin. He scrapes his fingers over the open wound - dragging them through the blood - before suddenly /snapping/ that bloody palm at Anole's temple. The punch is hard - maybe a bit harder than Peter wanted to throw. Not enough to brain someone, but definitely enough to /bruise/, maybe stun. It's also telegraphed from a mile away - rolling that hand up his side makes it pretty obvious he's going to be swinging from that side. If it hits, though, Anole will get smacked back /and/ splattered with a good helping of Peterblood. Anole darts forward when Peter bounces back, head ducking to charge towards the other boy. The spikyhard surface of his skull /probably/ wouldn't make for the most pleasant headbutts but that's okay, because he is intercepted by this smack. It sends him staggering back, stumble-tripping though the heavy bars of the cage break his fall. His back smacks into the cage, head shaking as he straightens. His green eyes fix on Peter, not so much narrowing as squinting up. "Ohgodohgodohgod," he's whispering under his breath as he charges again. A little more wobbly than before. His head is aiming towards the side that Peter didn't pull that blood from. The pain is slowing Peter down; on top of that, he's trying /really/ hard not to throw around his full strength. When his punch sends Anole reeling back, Peter's eyes widen with shock and worry. "OhcrapI'msorr--" DANGER SENSE But it's a little too late to the party; this time, it /isn't/ an act when Peter stumbles back from the next hit - Anole's head-spikes /smack/ into Peter's flank, (bluntly) goring him. There's another 'ungh'; the poor tattered hoodie rips more, exposing shirt - and one of Peter's arms drops on top of Anole's shoulder. "Keephitting, m'tough," he croaks, loosely /pulling/ Anole with him toward the cage wall, as if to encourage Anole to press him up against it and /pound/ him. The other hand - scraping up more blood from his flank. He wants to end this - and that means either hitting Anole until he's down or getting Anole to hit /him/ till he's down. And he's /terrified/ of trying the former. Anole does bear Peter back towards the wall, head and one shoulder driving forward as he pushes Peter back. But he looks pretty miserable about it, his eyes wide and troubled, lips quivering. He actually squeezes his eyes /shut/ when he raises a hand to punch vaguely at Peter's midsection. Then another punch. Then another. They still only carry about the strength that a bony underfed teenager who has never been in a fight can have. But he's relentless -- sort of. Under his breath ther'es just a steady stream: "I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry." "S'okay," Peter mumbles, beneath the sudden flash of blows - they manage to make the injury at his side spike with pain - but they aren't doing much beyond that. Peter /is/ tough. He feels them; some of them hurt - but overall, it's not nearly as bad as it might looks. He makes a show of trying to fend Anole off with one hand, meanwhile using the other hand to smear /blood/ on himself; the crowd's been chanting for it - the other guy left like some sort of mess of /hamburger/. "Keep -- going is -- okay -- doing -- /good/," Peter tells Anole, in-between blows, even as he does his best to flail /ineffectually/ at him. After a good while of this, Peter starts looking - a little haggard. At which point, his flailing attempts escalate to -- grabbing the back of Anole's spikey head and /yanking/ -- even as Peter seems to try and deliver a /headbutt/. It's hard, sudden -- maybe a bit harder than Peter intends. *THONK*. The end result is a split over Peter's eyebrow; more blood -- and Peter's head bounces, back against the cage -- *WHUNK*. He slumps to the ground, then, under Anole's assault -- bloody and 'battered' -- as somewhere over them, a buzzer goes off. "Faking," Peter whispers to Anole, eyes fluttering closed -- FALLING TO THE MIGHT OF THE CHAMELEON.