Mizrah's Ladder Ch. 12

You're back in Hell, boy.

She dances circles around you, far faster than Scourge - faster than any fucking Mortal you've faced, and you have to wonder if she's really this nimble or if something else is at work. You throw your body into overdrive to keep up but you're constantly on the defensive as she seems to command a complete three-sixty circle around you.

The iron cage is replaced with bars of literal hellfire, your foe is your own lack of speed.

The right hook you throw, cutting the air, should have knocked the tan girl's head from her shoulders but she...moves in these ways you don't understand, sliding under your arm like smoke and swinging around to drive a roundhouse kick into the side of your head that sends you staggering; you're not facing her, bad BAD -

The sidekick catches you in the ribs and throws you right up against the cage wall, shaking the whole structure and bringing you down to your knees. Somehow she's faster and hits as hard as a professional boxer.

"HOW STRONG DAVID STANDS AGAINST GOLIATH, BUT SEE HIS NASCENT GRANDEUR BROUGHT LOW BY DANIKA?! AS I SAID YUSUF, A DAY IN THE BOXING GYM, DOES NOT A WARRIOR OF THE PIT - "

You interrupt him with a furious sound that is eerily louder than the microphone the announcer shouts into. There's only one thing you do can, and that is to throw yourself forward to avoid getting your skull impacted by her fist - it smashes against the chainlink wall and she jumps back, shaking it and smarting.

"Tall, dark and clumsy," you wheeze to yourself, struggling to your feet and assessing your foe.

She is smoke shaped like a woman, her limbs tipped with spearheads that have kissed your bones and left them aching. Her eyes burn fiery orange.

Danika. You don't know her, although you feel even if you did she'd still be making a show out of you - facing the Humans wasn't as easy as you thought it was. She's only shorter than you by a couple inches, black hair worn in a braid underneath a white baseball cap. A sleek black t-shirt clings to her body, which seems to writhe with tigrish muscles; her movements remind you of a dancer's or a gymnasts, showmanship you envy in her every strike. Blood is streaming down your face from a cut in your forehead.

Shit...you can't see anything -

- but you hear her movements, smell her sweat and jink with feral speed to the right.

A flying knee strike that would have dented your forehead goes sailing by, and you understand what she's been doing...your eyes tell you she'll be in one place, but her snap-reflexes take her another. You wipe the blood from your eyes, turning to her just in time - she's up in your face with a left-cross right-jab combo you barely avoid but there's her knee, up in your groin. You barely shift your hips to the side and she instead impacts your pelvis painfully.

"Hijo de puta de cráneo grueso, solo cae," she hisses as you gasp in pain, contusions and bruises, sprains and nearly-broken bones repairing themselves beyond her sight. You do the only thing you can at this angle and slam your shoulder into her, bone-jarring force sending her skittering back before she rights herself.

You're wary of her...every time you've charged she's punished you with some movement you don't predict and an elbow, knee, or fist in some soft place; every time you've let her make a move you suffer a similar fate. She's never where your eyes think she'll be, and it occurs to you that this woman is a truly brilliant martial artist. What the hell is she doing down here in a place like this? It isn't like fighting Scourge, or another Firstblood.

That's not what you've descended down to hell for, though. That's not why a chorus of demons screams for your blood.

You snag this opportunity to take the offensive, faking her out with a leading hook and throwing combos for her ribs; one gets through, but she's canny to the rest; this close up, you lock your fingers around her wrists to grapple her but she's wearing some shiny oil on her skin that makes it impossible to keep a grip if you don't dig your talons in. She slips away, seems to...roll around you and takes your shoulders, pulling back -

You SLAM into the ground, your teeth shaking in your skull. This is infuriating. You cross your arms over your face to protect it from the inevitable stomp, rolling back to your feet. "That is the last fucking time you pull that shit," you gutter as anger gets the best of you.

"Quit fuckin' up," she taunts you, already on you again with precision and speed; you take it, covering your head as blood seeps back into your vision. She pummels your midsection, rabbit punches slipping in past your elbows and bruising your organs but she underestimates your resilience. The back of your fist impacts her temple, and you use the stunning effect to throw a rib-cracking pair of blows that almost send her from her feet.

She puts distance between you, keeping your back against the cage as she circles you, regarding you with just a hint more respect as you clear the red from your vision and see her bending forward where you struck her.

"You're really good," you concede. You've never fought someone like this, who strikes from many angles, who's too slippery to pin down. If she were Turned, she'd be a truly formidable Huntress, but you chose Isabel for her resilience, her brilliance, and the way she moved your heart.

Your foe doesn't respond, simply staring you down over her fingertips. The crowd roars incoherently, the announcer's grinding voice barely coming through the whining, shrieking sound of tearing metal and the crackle of fire in your head.

A punishing series of movements is your penance as she throws her all into a set of blows that leave you staggering, slipping in and past your defenses effortlessly. The crowd goes wild as she stabs your throat, cracks your ribs...your scream in an ugly voice that arouses the crowd as she twists your arm around, snapping your wrist with a pop and grind you feel through your whole body.

Of course you're howling in agony. How could you not? That doesn't mean it isn't embarrassing. Blood is flowing over your eyes again, rendering everything dark and crimson as she yanks you down to your knees.

You can't see...you can only hear, smell; but that should be all you need. You're the apex predator of this city, and no Mortal is going to lay you low. She's stepping back for the finishing blow, you can hear her every breath and movement and in this way it's easier to just set thought aside, let instinct take over.

Her knee comes up under your jaw to smash your teeth together and create a bloody mess of your face, but your body reacts before your mind when denied sight of the Prey. You roll back, crouched like a feral beast, dashing up at her with your knuckles brushing the ground. You snarl and snap, bringing your hand across her face from an unexpected angle that sends her reeling off balance.

She moves again, this time you can't see the distraction and simply follow her scent and heartbeat to your right. Something trails her, telltale -whoosh- of a kick following her movements to knock your head in. You rise and take the blow against your chest, ribs cracking and healing immediately. There, you have her, gripping her leg - you still can't see but you don't need to. You swing her around and slam her against the cage wall, and drive your fist into the sound of her heart.

Savage exultations from the announcer and the crowd are crimson noise as your knuckles impact soft flesh over and over, and you wipe the gore from your eyes as she falters down to her knees before you. Here, now, the Kill...but...there's no glory or honor in tangling with Mortals like this, and you aren't enough of a Monster to cripple or kill a talented martial artist like this one.

She isn't Scourge. She isn't Lena or Prey either, so in the second you have, you lock your arms firmly around her neck, even with the oil she wears, and wrestle her back against you. She claws at you, jabbing her elbow against whatever sensitive place she can find and it hurts but her strikes grow weaker until her arms fall to her side and she goes limp.

You release her still breathing form to the ground to...mixed reactions from a crowd who came here expecting blood and suffering, broken bones and ruptured organs.

"MERCY?! MERCY MAY BURNISH YOUR HONOR YUSUF, BUT THESE HUNGRY HEATHENS DIDN'T COME HERE FOR YOUR VIRTUE!" but you spit a mouthful of blood dismissively down the middle of the ring, giving him and the whole crowd the finger as they express their displeasure - you silence them with one more challenge, slamming your hands against the cage hard enough to bend it outward.

You didn't spiral down into this Pit to honor yourself, but neither did you descend to pull down worthy warriors with you.

---

You can't bring yourself to go back down there, so instead you stand outside, rolling an unlit cigarette between your clenched teeth. Any damage that Danika had done to you is long since healed, so you move without difficulty through the alleyway, following the other wolf's scent trail. You told yourself after the fight you'd just leave her be, but like a small flying thing you are inexorably drawn to the firelight of your kind; it was the natural state of the Werewolf, an Accursed state by your own reckoning - drawn to the very thing you most feared.

'Kin-killer. Wolfslayer.' You can't deny that the slurs were painful, a reminder of the black oil-stain on your reputation - sins that were ultimately pointless because nobody's lives had become any better. If anything, life simply spiraled downward after the brief interlude of happiness you'd enjoyed with Isabel, ever more perilous in the shadows of your shattered sensibilities and war-bent instincts. You can't help but fret over the prospect of Isabel finding out who and what you were before you'd convinced (or perhaps deceived?) her of your worth.

Enkindled such as you were unique among your kind in that every victory or show of dominance you held over another made you all progressively harder to resist; not quite the silken, addictive chain of the Blood Bond, but those Conditioned bore the weight of the very hierarchy you despise with you at the top. You'd had it planned since the moment you'd decided you were going to Bite her; subtle shows of dominance and alpha's presence in the Hunt, in bed, in your interactions.

It'd all gone awry, of course, when you fell in love with her...and because you'd failed to establish that sort of hard-yet-subtle dominance, there was a real threat that she'd be pulled away from you. You spite yourself for your weakness, that you couldn't act upon your earlier ambitious. Something as simple as beating her at that silly card game she loved - what was it called, Coldhollow? - would have started the process...but you just couldn't turn that against her.

Besides, she beat you at Coldhollow. And Arcana: the Conclave. And Rock Monk, and Battleaxe Gauntlet. She even beat you at Candyland, the woman is some sort of gaming demon. Your lips are tugging stubbornly at the corners into a smile, and you can't help but wonder what she's doing. You're being irresponsible, you should be at her side protecting her and making sure that she's completely and utterly yours...but here you are instead, acting like some sort of furtive, violent animal. You knew that other Turnskins were this way, that the Strains were all cursed by some toxic aspect of their viral heritage manifesting in their personalities...your heart throbs in time to your love for her, but your eyes pulse green with obsession.

Your journey takes you little more than a block from the Frail Maid, through winding alleys and into places where the streets didn't reach some of these old abandoned buildings; amazing how easily such locations could be found in the sprawl of The City. You find her seated on the concrete railing of a blunt, unbeautiful terrace protruding from the base of one of those condemned structures. Thirty years ago kids might be running through the puddles and leaping over the potholes, but no more.

She's sitting cross-legged in front of a chessboard, nobody on the other side. Nobody else here but her, so there's no way she doesn't see or hear you; the fact that she hasn't bothered to ambush you or lay down a challenge means she doesn't take you as a threat, or even worth the effort. Your ego burns before a word is even spoken, but you play it cool and allow her eyes to follow you as you climb up onto the terrace, sitting across from her.

For an errant moment neither says a thing, both of you simply staring at the chessboard; you see that she's already a few moves in, although you don't spot her adversary which raises your curiosity. Is she playing against herself...?

You analyze the board quickly and smirk. "You're screwed," you point out smugly.

Her angular Korean face shows no sign of amusement, folding her right hand over her left fist, balancing her chin upon it. "Is that a threat?" she responds coolly.

"No, it's an observation." You cross your legs and run your fingers over the pieces...you'll make your point shortly.

"I never asked." Her harsh growl carries an inhuman overtone but you're not afraid of other Werewolves; they're your Chosen Prey.

"I don't wait to be asked," you respond simply, pinching a bishop by his metre and sliding him like a shark through checkered waters next to her pawn. The other wolf stares flatly at you.

"You're an incredibly annoying person. Nobody mentioned that about you." Still, she uses her pawn to take your bishop and you feign distress.

"Nobody's ever mentioned anything about you," your rook sidles up alongside her own, three steps ahead...watching as she maneuvers her queen up and takes your piece. Her expression reads growing impatience but beneath it lurks expectation and no small amount of curiosity. "What's your name?"

"Dude...are you like...the only musician who can't read an audience? What happened to 'hurr let's save it for the ring'?" she drawls at you - yeah there's just a hint of that Louisiana twang, she's from around here. She looks like she is considering slapping you but you've been here before; to grease the wheels you burn just a bit of that energy that makes you an unnatural thing, capable of tugging the reins of nature and reality, and your voice becomes...subtly suggestive, your charm and charisma enough to melt glaciers.

You slide a pawn two spaces forward, retaining the central four squares. "Come on, enough. We did the snapping and snarling before I beat up Danika, we may tangle in the cage but we don't gotta like...dick spar outside it." You smile at her the same way you smile at any woman you're trying to impress, and to your credit - or perhaps the credit of the subtle forces affecting her amygdala - you can tell she's fighting the urge to smile back by looking at the chessboard instead of your face.

"Annie." The other Turnskin regards you as if you're something of a simpleton, but she's also suspicious...experienced enough as a warrior to recognize feigned foolishness. She moves a bishop in to claim your rook.

There's no need to introduce yourself on account of your infamy, so you proceed to lightly kick her bishop down with your knight's L-shaped gallantry. "Check. The hell are you doing down here anyway? I've never heard of you, and I know every Firstblood from here to Cook County."

Annie appears to be weighing the merits of smacking you for that question, but the way you work the chessboard has her focused upon her inevitable defeat, furrowing her slender brows. "Yeah, I don't do your whole...thing."

"My whole...thing," you echo, to make sure you heard her right, leaning back on your palms as you watch her puzzle out the trap closing around her.

"Yyyep. You heard me pretty boy. God dammit." She impulsively moves her queen into the center square to take your pawn, and you save your derisive leer for the chessboard as your knight charges into the breach to take her royalty. "You serious?" she huffs and reaches for her rook -

"Check . " You gesture loosely at how her King's vulnerability to your bishop's long-range strike. "Okay, so...elaborate a little?"

"No." She stubbornly moves her king to the right, and you position your knight for the killing blow. "This is bullshit - "

"This. Is. Checkmate." Your knight's base hisses across the board, one L-hop away from the king. You simply sit back on your palms and watch as she gets on her hands and knees over the board, picking up pieces and setting them back down with increasing agitation. "So...how about - "

"This isn't a fucking movie Mizrah, just cuz you can play Chess doesn't mean I'm going to just...suddenly get all buddy-pal with you. I'm not interested, alright?" But your attuned, preternatural hearing picks up on the change in tone, subtle as it was...the way she sits straight before you instead of leaning forward like she was getting ready to snap your face off.

Yes...there it is. The glint of fire reflected between your eyes, barely noticeable as the Enkindled Strain's weight makes it ever harder to resist your charm and dominance. She regards you with a hair less hostility now, and contrary to what she said, you know she's interested, a little at least. The satisfaction of digging under the skin of a particularly stone-hard Afflicted was a distraction from misery's companionship.

"Alright. As you say, not interested." Without another word, you arrange your side's pieces back on the board as she watches with a stony silence that nonetheless was complex with emotion. He knew she wouldn't break the quiet on her end, her pride was far too great for that but she'd been thrown off by this singular small defeat. No matter how the fight down in the Pit went, she would dwell on this little, initial defeat.

Your obsidian-dark stare crawls with flinty heat back to her icy blue eyes, and you give her a smug, sultry little grin that rankles her before pushing off the concrete ledge, landing easily, and heading back to the Pit.

---

Get up boy. You're not done yet. You haven't blacked out from punishment yet.

Where Scourge had been an easy kill, and Danika worthy prey for a Mortal, Annie is truly out of your league. Your conscious mind claws its way screaming up from the dark of your soul as you spit a mouthful of blood on the backs of your hands. You can't remember your name, or how you even got here - it's worse than doing too many drugs or drinking past your tolerance because you're keenly aware of the way Annie circles you in the ring. Casually, like this is a walk in Tennor Park and you realize just how much of an amateur you are. You can't even make out whatever mockery is thrown your way from the twisted little announcer, just that he's giddy as the crowd...something he says makes them laugh, and it roils your pride enough that you push up from your hands and knees only to take Annie's casually thrown roundhouse kick against your forearms to protect your face. It nearly knocks you back down and you instead scrabble to your feet, but she's throwing one after the other and it's like she's hitting you over and over with a baseball bat.

What is this? Muay Thai? Taekwondo? That shit isn't supposed to work, you've faced -

-WHAM-

The sidekick lances your stomach like a battering ram, sending you flying backward into the cage wall again. You can't breathe, and you feel like something went -pop!- in your body - yes, you taste the rich blood of a split organ and force it to close, but you're too slow to stop the incoming right hook. It catches your cheekbone, cracking it and sending you back down to your knees while your body plays catch up with regeneration.

"PUSSY-ASS LOSER!"