the sound of insanity -- 002 Title; The Sound of Insanity Author; Jei Rating; R. Warnings; Profanity. Blood. Nondescript nudity. Summary; Kinda my idea on how Farfarello joined Schwarz. Notes; Chapter 02. Also I feel obligated to point out that although I am introducing an OC, there is no pairing happening here. I know I tend to lose interest in fanfiction when I sense a mary sue coming on, so rest assured that's not what I have planned. [;
Underground fighting rings were illegal, but profitable if you managed to avoid getting caught. Edgar had, at one point, been at the top of the game. He had an eye for men who were mean and stupid, a dangerous combination if properly trained. He had made several fortunes on the lives of others. But that had been years ago.
The man was old, too old to be in a business meant for the young and sharp-minded. He had considered retirement, but pride had bid him to stay for just one more, and one more still. Edgar had gotten himself caught, and it had been Crawford who had sweet talked him out of it. Plenty of cops could be bought and sold for the right price, and Crawford knew them all.
Edgar had never gotten a clear reason why Crawford had helped him, but he had always assumed it was because he possessed something the young man desired. He had yet to figure out what it was, had offered him money, his many beautiful daughters, and had been denied every time. His last resort was his prize fighters, of which Farfarello was the pick of the litter.
"He feels no pain," Edgar had said. "He can withstand a beating that would kill a normal man. His name is one of Dante's demons. Perhaps he truely is."
Crawford had agreed to watch Farfarello fight, but in the end even his most treasured fighter hadn't appeased him. His debt remained, and as Edgar sat alone in his study, puffing absently at his pipe, he wondered what he could do to rid himself of Crawford forever.
"Pardon me, sir."
Edgar stirred from his daze and looked up. His eldest son stood at the doorway, a leash held firmly in one hand.
"Its arrived. Would you care to take a look?"
Edgar nodded, setting his pipe aside and straightening himself in his seat. After his brush with the law, he had finally decided to remove himself from the rings. His son, however, showed great potential, and with his guidance was taking care to uphold the family reputation.
Though the fighters remained Edgar's until his death, to do with as he saw fit, it was his son to set up their matches and mind their well-being afterward. He also proved to have an eye for good material, the same as his father. He often brought new fighters before Edgar to either approve or send away. Today was no different. Edgar had been expecting this one for quite some time, and felt the old rush of excitement to get the first look.
"Bring him in quickly. I'll want the usual. A good once over and a look of him in the ring. Perhaps I can pull Mikael for a practice round.."
His son held up a hand, dismissing his father. "That won't be necessary," he said. "I don't bring you a fighter today."
Edgar raised a brow as he reached for his cane.
"Then what in God's name are you holding there? I don't need no damn dog if that's what you're thinkin'."
His son gave a tug of the leash, and Edgar squinted as a young woman stumbled into view. She was small, too small in all aspects, and her long, black hair stood out against her white skin. The tattered clothing she wore hung loose from her thin frame, offering bare glimpses of what lay underneath.
"I don't need no damn whore either," Edgar spat as he hobbled over, shaking a finger. "What is the meaning of this?"
His son smiled, a cold, piercing gesture even Edgar despised.
"Bait," he stated simply.
+ + + + +
Farfarello slowly unwound the lengths of gauze from his arm as the other fighters milled around him, talking amongst themselves in muted voices. They rarely bothered with him, and Farfarello didn't mind. He much preferred his own company to any they could provide.
His wounds had been as bad as he had thought, but they seemed to be healing quickly enough. Enough, at least, that he had been brought back to the rings for another performance. Conversation buzzing in his ears like so many flies, he began to pull the stitches from his flesh.
"Good evening, gentlemen."
Farfarello looked up, as did the other fighters. The manager, Edgar's son, strode in in his smart looking suit, a charming grin centered on his face. Farfarello immediately lost interest and returned to pulling stitches. Edgar's son was clever, he gave him that much, but not nearly the tactition his father had been. Farfarello figured he would get himself killed within his first year alone, and therefore never bothered to learn his name.
"Farfarello, you will be up first," the son said. "And we have a special guest with us tonight, so you'll be given an extra incentive to win."
He snapped his fingers and retreated from the room. It was Farfarello's signal to follow, but he took his time. He had yet to lose a fight, and found the idea of "incentive" somewhat insulting.
If nobody else does, Farfarello thought as he finally stood. Perhaps I'll kill him myself.
Farfarello had no love of the ring, derived neither pleasure nor guilt from the murder of another human as some did. It was merely what he was good at, and he was content with it. He hated the walk through the tunnel, though. Overhead, he could hear the yelling and chanting of the crowd. People hungry for bloodletting. Barbarians, all of them.
If only they would get into the ring just once. Farfarello wondered how many would still like it then.
Emerging into the ring was surprisingly ceremonious, half of the crowd cheering as they recognized Edgar's prize while the other half boo'd. The ring itself was nothing more than a dirt pit surrounded by high concrete walls lined with barbed wire sheets. The only weapons allowed were the ones supplied by the moderator, a squat little man with a round belly and a fondness for short blades.
Farfarello met his opponent at the center of the ring, the moderator standing between them with a long tray of the weapons they were allowed to choose from. His opponent, a tall, muscled figure with a zippered hood masking his face, refused the assorted blades. Farfarello rolled his shoulders and selected an icepick. Classic.
"Ladies and gentleman!" the moderator bellowed as he stepped away. "Tonight's event is promised to be an exceptional one. A prize! A prize for the winning fighter!"
Farfarello's interest had been piqued, and he looked up to the stands to find Edgar. Generally, it was only the owners who would gain anything from the fights. What prize could they offer savages such as themselves?
Near the back, Edgar stood with a taller man clad all in white. Farfarello recognized him; he had been at his last fight. Crawford, if he recalled the name correctly. Among fighters, it was never a good sign to see their owners bringing the same person to the same fights. It usually meant something was at stake, and it usually ended up being the fighter's contract.
Farfarello snapped out of his thoughts and returned his eyes to the moderator. He stood next to a heap on the ground, drapped in a dirt stained sheet. They must have brought it out while he hadn't been paying attention.
The moderator made a grand show of it, taking the sheet in his hands and pausing for dramatic effect before whipping it off in a single fluid motion. Beneath was a shivering woman, her nude body showing the scars of a brutal upbringing. As the crowd went through the motions of cat-calling and hollering, the woman tried in vain to cover herself.
"The winner of tonight's fight will be allowed one night with our lovely vixen!"
Farfarello turned his eyes back to the stands, catching Edgar's gaze. If the idea of an incentive hadn't been insulting enough, the thought of it being a woman certainly was. Beside him, the man he knew as Crawford seemed to take a more active interest in the scene unfolding below him.
He barely had time to register the moderator's voice before his opponent came rushing at him, obviously more thrilled with the prize than Farfarello was. As a large fist came barreling toward his face, Farfarello ducked out of the way, narrowly escaping a bad blow.
The fight was a dance, each fighter moving in opposite rhythms to avoid the other. Though Farfarello had no interest in the promise of what he supposed was supposed to be a passionate night, he was somewhat less enthused by the idea of being killed under the watchful gaze of a hundred spectators.
The larger man charged. Farfarello readied himself, arms up with the blade of his pick glinting ominously in the light. When the man came within range, he lashed out..
And was captured. His wrist bound the the vice-like grip his opponent obtained, his fingers slowly unfurled. The icepick fell straight into the waiting hand of his enemy. Farfarello silently cursed himself for not seeing through the rouse.
Pushed to his knees, Farfarello ground his teeth and reached desperately for an idea, anything that could relieve him of his current predicament.
"You're mine, ya freak," he heard his opponent mumble.
As Farfarello tilted his head up, the man held up the icepick and made to jab it forward, straight into Farfarello's neck. Acting on instinct alone, Farfarello hunched forward.
There was a low hum from the crowd as they whispered among themselves. The hooded man stepped away from Farfarello, his arms raised in victory and his voice booming in celebration. With his back turned, he failed to notice Farfarello rising behind him.
Blood poured like a river down one side of Farfarello's face, his hands clamped over his eye. The icepick lay on the ground at his feet amid a mess of blood and tissue.
The crowd began to yell, many pointing to Farfarello. The man turned and, upon seeing Farfarello was not yet dead, let out a horrible imitation of a howl. One hand still covering half his face, Farfarello kicked the icepick up and grabbed it with his other.
"I'm tired of you," Farfarello muttered as the man began another charge.
In a graceful move, Farfarello spun out of the man's path, one arm hooking him around the neck. Pulling him to himself, the icepick was soon embedded deep into his spine.
The crowd went silent as Farfarello jerked the blade upward, severing muscle from bone. Once satisfied that the man was no longer a threat, Farfarello released him, standing quietly as the body fell lifeless to the ground.
- - - - -
Later that night, Farfarello sat and stared at the wall as the woman from the ring wrapped a large bandage around his head. It didn't hurt, not really, but for a dull ache in the back of his head. Edgar had been pleased he hadn't passed out again.
"You're lucky you're alive," the woman said, breaking the silence.
"Luck has nothing to do with it," Farfarello replied.
The woman didn't respond as she finished bandaging.
"What are you doing here?" Farfarello said after a moment.
The woman sat back, bringing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them tightly.