Raksha (vicious_balance) wrote in athinblackline, @ 2008-12-20 13:43:00 |
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Entry tags: | !tournament, wild child |
Tournament - Round One - WildChild vs Hellcat
Who: Hellcat & Wild Child
When: Saturday Dec 20; noon
Where: Grass Arena
What: Feral vs. Feral, anything could happen
Wild Child was being difficult, as usual. This was really no surprise to anyone who was at all familiar with Revolve, but today, he was being an entirely different kind of difficult. Normally the feral mutant was forced into the ring, snarling, snapping and attempting to take out as many guards as he possibly could in the process, today he was not doing much at all. The guards had literally had to physically grab Gibney, haul him into their arms and quite literally drag him into the ring. He was not fighting, not lashing out, though a faint hint of a growl was rumbling low in his chest.
Soon the blond found himself crouching near one wall of the ring, his blue eyes giving a half-hearted glare at the spectators. He had no idea who he was to be fighting, he was sure he had been told, but ever since Wednesday, when he had been given a slight taste of his former life, he had paid attention to nothing. He had been very sure that his heart would simply ache itself to death, yet, here it was, the day of the tournament and it was still beating. Was it pathetic? Oh yes. Was he being foolish? Definitely. But Kyle Gibney was still a teenager, and as such, was prone to extreme behaviors and moods.
He growled deeply in his chest again, not at the oddly tiger-like scent that was nearing him, but rather at the spectators themselves. They wanted a performance, they wanted him to fight for their pleasure, they wanted him to behave like a living toy. Kyle fully intended to behave for them as he behaved for everyone else in this twisted prison: Whatever they wanted, he would be the opposite. Maybe this time he would be able to keep his instincts repressed long enough and be up against a ferocious enough opponent to actually meet an end this time, or at least embarrass himself enough to be lowered a color, as he still aiming to be as worthless to his owners as possible.
Gibney was dressed in his usual baggy, ripped blue jeans and a rust-red shirt with the sleeves none too neatly torn off, there was no 'fighting uniform' for this particular mutant. He truly did look the part of his code name, his hair long, tangled and unkempt, falling in messy clumps all around his face and down his back, faint streaks of blood seen in it here and there. His clawed, furred feet were bare under the legs of his jeans, his exposed arms also blanked with an odd mix of blond fur and hair, longer clumps of fur prominent along his elbows. The piercings in his leaf-shaped ears glinted lightly in the afternoon sun, a light sneer on his lips showing his elongated canines, but those cat slitted eyes were distant and resigned. Despite his savage looks, crouched pose and deadly reputation, there was no fight in the young feral today.
Raksha moved to the arena calmly enough, one of his handlers on either side with fingers quivering over the control to his collar. They were waiting for him to give them a reason to use it, he knew. He'd been given breakfast this morning so clearly this was not to be a death match. It was easier to resist the instinct to kill his prey if he fought on a full stomach. Golden eyes with intensity reminiscent of the tiger gave nothing away to those that met them, watching everything around him carefully. The excitement of the spectators hung on the air with a faint tang of fear. Some of them feared the "dogs" they put in the ring. The faint hint of a wicked smile tugged at his mouth at the thought. Even the red-banded metal about his neck only did so much. After all, they were hesitant to damage a valuable commodity even to save a life. Not that it would have stopped him even if they weren't. Pain and punishment were close companions, rather than something to fear.
Bare feet touched grass when he stepped into the arena, gaze scanning until he spotted the blond crouched at the opposite end. He recognized the scent, the prey came from the same Block. Younger smelling and animal. Though that scent had been the same in all the years he'd been aware of the other male, which was curious but not enough to focus on. The gate slid shut behind him with a metallic click. He took another step forward, sleek, hard-muscled body moving with a sense of controlled power. Warm afternoon air teased across bare arms, the skin marred only by striking bands of Celtic styleknotwork done in black ink, one on each. He wasn't hungry, but bored and for the moment, this stretch of grass was his territory. And there was an intruder on it. Still, he let nothing show as he moved forward again at a relaxed pace. No fear scent from the other male, the body language was defensive but not submissive. He inhaled again, mouth imperceptibly open to enhance the scent and found no scent of adrenaline or rage either.
Golden eyes scanned the spectators again, making note of the facial expressions as his acute hearing kept track of any sound of movement from the end of the arena where the other male still crouched. A faint breeze stirred the black hair that framed his angular, exotic features, briefly uncovering the small set ofkanji tattooed on the back of his neck just beneath the hairline. He had only as much interest in the prey as the male had intruded on what temporarily became his turf. Instincts urged that he threaten and convince his opponent to leave, or failing that, leave him too maimed to present a threat. But as he looked, vision blurring faintly, he could see the fault-lines of self-hate. Expression remaining neutral, he contemplated making quick work of this so-called fight.
The crouched mutant certainly had the look of self hatred, and a great deal of hate in general, but he also had a strange resigned nature about him. Someone who scented of both wolf and youth should not have such dead eyes. Kyle did all he could to block out the crowd, refusing to let the raging emotions and excitement of the crowd spur him into action. The muscles in his shoulders gave a faint twitch, his body aching to get caught up in the adrenaline around him, but his mind firmly refused to give in to his most basic urges.
Absently his blue eyes flicked upwards toward the new arrival in the ring, he unable to ignore his curiosity about the strange tiger scent which was suddenly assaulting his senses any longer. He was scowling darkly up at the other, but it was just a mask, a front, and anyone with more primal instincts would understand this. His nose wrinkled a few times as he sniffed at the new arrival, looking up at him through his tangled mess of hair. Gibney recognized the wild animal inside the tattooed male before him, and while he still, by default, hated everyone in this place, Kyle could not help but respect a kindred spirit.
Wild Child made no effort to move, he did radiate aggression, but it was really a default setting for him at this point, he was aggressive toward anyone or anything who got too close to him. He did not seem to be directing the aggression toward the other mutant, not even offering a defensive air, furthering the impression that he really had simply given up on himself. He did not speak, but the way he looked at the other mutant spoke volumes without words. He had no desire to fight, no will to defend himself, he all but had the look of a wounded animal who wished to simply be put out of his misery. He just waited, wondering what the tiger-smelling mutant would do, as Gibney planned to do nothing save remain crouched right on that spot.
He saw the scowl for the mask it was when it didn't reach the eyes of younger-smelling male, noting the repressed motion in the tense shoulders. Raksha circled leisurely closer, still staying well out of range as he studied the crouched mutant. The other male seemed uninterested in doing more than defending his personal space and was no longer an opponent in Raksha's eyes, merely prey, though he wasn't hungry enough for any hunting instinct to kick in. He moved closer, testing to see what the other feral would do. To see if this was a pattern before the other defended himself or attacked or really an attempt to be left alone as the body language implied. Not the first time he'd faced an unenthusiastic opponent. He hated his owner and the others but the fights, especially the death matches were not entirely different than what he'd done before this place. Hunt and kill. Get paid in order to survive.
The turf under his feet was green, despite how many fights the arena had seen. He could still smell the faded scent of old blood that no amount of cleaning would ever get out. The expectant gazes of onlookers drilled into his back. He ignored them, they were no threat. Remaining out of easy striking range, he stalked the other mutant like a cat and mouse, watching for the slightest reaction. The crowd had quieted except for unhappy murmuring, apparently disappointed in the lack of action. No glow of pain from the other mutant that he could use, but there was above. The audience was in range and someone was in pain. Attention still on his opponent, he nudged the crimson glow to expand, able to see in his mind's eye what part of the body it was focused in. Then the murmuring increased as people noticed an owner seeming to have a heart attack. They'd never really figured out this ability of his. The more obvious one was enough to make him a valuable dog. Sometimes pain would increase in his presence, no one had pinpointed that he was often responsible or how he'd done it.