Chapter Text
It was simple - a dance he had done hundreds of times before, eloquent and committed to memory. Dodge, weave, duck, hit when an opening occurred. Nothing could get past him, and that's why everyone screamed his name.
"Enough, I'm done!" The voice cries, tainted with pain, but he hits again, a straight shot to the nose.
It was funny really, he remembers the sound used to make him gag, and now…
Well, now it brought him an almost sick sense of pleasure.
"Elliott! Leave the poor lad alone, will ya?!" Comes the voice, accented and commanding, and he drops his fists at once, as if suddenly turned meek. As his tunnel vision fades, he finds himself once more in the steady sting of his knuckles, and he watches as a rough hand claps his opponent on the back. That was all the motivation the rookie needed to scramble out of the room, leaving the two men alone.
"I-I-"
"Good job out there, son, but try not to kill anymore of the poor bastards just yet, yeah? This is training. Soon enough there'll be no-one left to face ya."
The man was shorter than he was, but well muscled, rugged, and his aura demanded he be obeyed, that much of course Elliott already knew. Clearing his throat, he tries to find his words, but nods instead.
"Y-Yeah." He felt cold.
"Walk with me, Witt."
He'd long since grown used to the dim lighting in the ring, but the transfer from dark to fluorescent white still made his eyes sting. "Barely let the bloke get a hit in. You'll be set for the game in no time." The rough hand encloses around his shoulder, icy fingertips against his clammy skin that made him shudder. He was being walked, presumably, to the main office.
"Aw, c'mon, Blisk, you know me. I'm already ready." He huffs, rolling his eyes and setting his jaw in a pout that made the older man laugh heartily.
"Aye, I know, Elliott but practice is-"
"Overrated? I mean really, Blisk, I haven’t lost a match in-" He's stopped in his tracks, both verbally and physically as the hand on him tightens him to a hold, and he swallows hard, eyes inspecting a small crack in the wall.
"Look at me, son." Blisk says, voice level but Elliott knows not to test him. His eyes reluctantly flick to the older man's. "You're good, but don't get cocky, ya? Kill the folks that need killing, leave the rest for the back benches."
A petulant sigh escapes his lips before he can stop it.
"Fine."
"Good lad. You're my best fighter, Witt. Don't mess that up because you acted the fool. Save the show for the ring." Blisk sighs. They were stood in the crossroad of the hallway, and Elliott felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck rising at having his back exposed like this, adrenaline still surging through his veins. He hated hearing that tone in his voice, like he was disappointed in him.
"Yessir." He says glumly.
"Attaboy. Rest up, come see me tomorrow, might have something good for ya... And for Christ sakes put on a shirt."
Left to his own devices like this after training, he almost didn't know what to do. Typically, he would move back to the gym, and work out his remaining frustrations on a punching bag, but today Blisk made it clear that he expected him to rest, and well… You didn't disobey Blisk. He picks his way towards the showers, pondering about what he could do to fill his time as he shucks off the pants and throws them aside; letting his hair down from its bun and flicking the curls back from his eyes. With practiced movements, he unwraps the bloodied bindings on his knuckles, revealing the dark ink underneath and throwing the soiled fabric in the trash. The open wounds stung in the fresh air, but that was minimal, compared to some of the injuries he'd had to suffer through in the past. These days, he barely felt anything unless it was some kind of major damage to somewhere important… Impatient, he turns on the faucet.
"Fucking hell." Elliott growls out, voice tender from his parched throat, and slams his hand into the metal pipe, once, twice, until the freezing stream of water relents and begins to heat.
Swapping his towel for a set of briefs, he begins to rub down his damp skin, paying cautious attention to the fresh wound on his side. It still smarted, and well, the last thing he wanted was for it to reopen; hence the boss's insistence on an easier training session that day. He had to be in perfect shape for this match. He had to win .
It wouldn't just be another victory under his belt, no, but a rather lucrative sum of cash for the pleasure, and well, money was always in high demand.
Wiping down the mirror, Elliott takes a moment to simply stare. His skin was riddled with bruises, and scars lined him like roads on a map - natural, and plentiful, but he still had his life, and that was truly the only important thing in a business like this. He just wished his poor nose hadn't taken so many beatings. It was crooked, and marked with a lengthy scar that, while unsightly, added to his appeal as a seasoned fighter. Lost in thought, he presses his fingertips into the skin on his face, inspecting, and introspective.
And then his heart finds itself somewhere around his mouth as arms wrap around his throat, legs around his waist, and he barely breathes before instinct kicks in, flipping the intruder off of him and onto the floor with a loud thud and a cry of pain.
"Fuckin' hell, Witt! I came to say hello not to be another of your bloody murder victims!"
Spinning around, he groans loudly.
"Ramya, how many times have I told you not to do that?!" He asks, lowering the fist he had ready to show whoever it was a lesson about messing with someone like him.
"Sorry not sorry, but to be honest, you should see the look on your face. Damn right hilarious." She shoots him a grin from his floor, and he extends a hand to lift her up, which she gratefully accepts.
"Would it be so funny though a broken skull?" He responds back, rolling his eyes as he continues to dress. He sees her making faces through the mirror, but says nothing.
"Yeah yeah, tough guy." She grins, and leans against him, arm on his shoulder. "So, big fight next week?"
"12 days." He replies simply, and she rolls her eyes.
"Same thing." Elliott turns, and finds her rummaging through his mini fridge, already helping herself to a bottle of beer, cracking the seal on the edge of his desk. "So, you know who the poor bastard is yet?"
He shoots her an unimpressed glare before reaching for a bottle himself. If there was one thing to be learned about Ramya, is that she was entirely too comfortable around the types of people Blisk employed. Some of the guys Elliott had dealt with over the years could have almost any man shaking in his boots, but this girl, barely an adult, cracked a joke and made herself right at home. However, even Elliott had to admit, (albeit reluctantly), that Ramya was one of their best assets. She was a genius with mechanics, and their most reliable source of firearms yet, and all she asked for in return was a decent wage, a bed and a way to have a good time.
"Nope. Boss says I won't find out until I get in the ring, keeps the su-uh… Well, y'know. Crowds love it." He shrugs, looking down at his knuckles and deciding whether or not to re-wrap them.
"Damn, how we supposed to place bets if we don't know who's ass you'll be kickin', eh? I'm a busy woman, I value my money." She rubs the tips of her fingers together, and Elliott can’t help but laugh.
"Well, you haul your ass outta bed before noon and go see. Or, y'know, just have a bit of faith in your old pal Mirage and pay up." He takes a steady few gulps of the beer, Adams apple bobbing rhythmically until he parts for breath, and furrows his brow.
"Fuckin' Mirage . I've heard it all now, tough guy. What dya even need a stage name for when you can knock a bloke flat before the announcer can even say your poncy name, eh?" She asks, cackling a little.
"What're you doing here, Rams?" It's not that he didn't appreciate the company, just… Well, he didn't much feel in a social mood with Blisk's stern words from earlier still fresh in his mind.
"Alright, straight to business as usual." She holds up her hands, bottle dangling loosely between her fingers, and he's about to scold her because God damn if she got booze on his sheets one more time he was gonna- "Heard boss man pulled you out early today. Reckon it's got something to do with tomorrow?"
Oh. Now that catches his attention. He swats at her side until she shuffles over and piles his weight on the bed, the resounding creak sounding somewhere between a dying animal and a car braking, and he curses to himself.
"What, he told you and not me?" He asks, feeling more than a little pissed off, but Ramya stops that train before it can leave the station and cause any sort of head on collision with his better senses.
"Nah, overheard you both, I know as much as you do mate, but I can tell this one is interesting." She takes a moment to yank the tie from her hair and ruffles her nails against her scalp, settling down comfortably against his sheets. Another hearty drink, and she continues. "I mean, calling you out for it? Sounds like you're in for something good."
He supposed she had a point. Blisk had plenty of bodyguards, men he hired specifically for the purpose of intimidation and protection, but Elliott was being invited along too. Perhaps a risky deal with dangerous people? It certainly wouldn't be the first time. He strokes at his beard, lost in thought until a knee nudges against his. "If you've got a side gig, fancy givin' a gal a cut?"
"What?!" He splutters, looking towards her with mouth agape.
"C'mon, call it a service fee for the top quality Rampart you get."
"Yeah, you'd like that huh? Steal my booze and my money. Never mind you still owe me for the-"
"Pizza, yeah, that sounds good right about now, eh? Few drinks with your best mate before a busy day tomorrow, what dya say?"
Damn her. He was about to say no, tell her to leave him to his own for the night when his stomach growls, and loudly at that. "Dope. Stay here, I'll pay."
"Generous." He chuckles, and reaches for the remote on his side table. There were worse ways to spend a night than with food and good company, he supposed.
There was something about her, something he liked. Not in that way, of course - he was old enough to have more sense than that, and seeing some of the other men around the compound try to chase her made his nose turn up, but… She seemed to understand him. Almost better than he felt he could understand himself most of the time. She just looked into him, saw what needed doing, and he greatly appreciated it. Its like she could tell he needed the company after earlier that day, and before he knows it, they're settled around the battered old table, pizza off to the side and a drink next to the both of them, cards in hand and cash in the middle. She jokes and carries on, and for the most part he joins in, ribbing at her for sarcasm in return, and a genuine smile graces his face. If he didn't know any better he'd say she reminded him of…
Well. She felt like family.
But that's what Blisk had always emphasised anyway, that they were all one big happy family of delinquents and outcasts.
"Five card trick, suck on these Ram parts baby!" She cheers, hands coming down to emphasise between her legs and Elliott can't help but snort.
"Alright hotshot, wrap it up. Got a busy day tomorrow and Blisk'll kill me if I show up hungover." She sighs, but wastes no time in reaching forward to her newly earned profit, stuffing the loose notes into her pocket.
"Yeah yeah, I got you. Get your beauty rest in because you're an old bloke now. Plastered off two drinks and bed time at eleven thirty."
He shoves her playfully.
"Don't forget who flipped you on your ass earlier, Parekh." He warns, and she shoves him back, though not nearly as effective. Sure, she was about an inch or so taller than him, but he more than made up for it in muscle. Ramya was lean and slim with strong arms from her pride and joy of a gun, Sheila, but Elliott had spent his entire life working out, training to take hits and return them at triple the damage. With his fists, it was always personal.
"At least let me take the pizza if you're not gonna scoff it." She asks, and he sighs, reaching for one more slice before motioning for her to take the box.
"Fine, kid. But next time, you bring the beer." He says between chews, and washes it down with the last of his beer.
"Whatever. Try not to snore too loudly, walls are thin, you know." She grins, and with that, she's out the door before he can retort.
"Little shit."
Almost violently, his hand slams down on the alarm. Like most things in his life, he showed it little mercy, especially when it woke him at such early hours. He groans, slinging an arm over his eyes. He was still tired, and while the ache that used to settle deep in his muscles had long since ended, he still felt particularly tense this morning. Walking into a situation where he didn't know what was happening, or why, was something he didn't exactly make a habit of. Last time it had happened… He wasn’t eager for a repeat.
But he trusted Blisk. He had no reason to believe anything would go awry while under his guidance; he was good at making things stick to plan. He sighs, pulling back the sheets and shuddering at the cool morning chill on his skin before standing, brushing back his curls that were beginning to frizz. First things first, he flips the switch on the coffee maker stashed into a corner, and opens his wardrobe. Today, he assumed, it was simply protection, an intimidation job, and so he picks his clothes accordingly. Black and red tactical pants, a fitted compression shirt and his signature jacket. Nothing wrong with looking good while scaring the living shit out of whatever poor sap walked into Blisk's domain, and dressing well proved he could be civilised if needs be too. It was all about balance, as the boss had taught him.
He sips at his drink, trying to work the fatigue from his mind and prepare himself for what could happen, deep in his thoughts as per usual. He'd gotten this far by being cautious, and he wasn't about to throw that away now. Eventually though, he realises that it was time, and he reaches for the remainder of his ensemble - boots, goggles, chain. He shuts and locks his door once, then again, just to make sure, and begins to walk to the office.
"There he is." Blisk greets, bringing him into the room, and there's little fanfare before who he assumes to be the client they were dealing with today steps inside. Distinct clicking, fancy shoed feet step onto the dark wooden flooring, and Elliott lets his eyes inspect freely, arms folded. The man was lithe, that much he could tell from the fitted black slacks he wore, and well, as a merc he could tell an impressive piece of armor when he saw it. The stranger's entire torso seemed to be plated in gold and black, with a fitted dark coat to match. This was a man with something to hide, he could tell, although that wasn't much of a revelation, given their line of work. They weren’t exactly on the legal side of things. Gaze cool and calm, the man stands proud in the middle of the room, pointedly meeting the boss's eyes.
"Kuben Blisk, we need to talk."