Who: Bia and Neit What: The first rule of fight club is... When: Wednesday Night Where: Sketchy warehouse.
New York City. Oh NYC. The aggression level was already so high here. People flipping the bird like it was a pigeon on the sidewalk. They weren't terribly friendly, which suited Bia just fine. These people seemed to like being annoyed and angry, and she did little to increase that feeling. Why should she? She could ride high on the growly feelings of others without having to worry a lick about anything else. She found herself involved with the worst kind of people, so she did the worst kinds of things.
Right now? She was visiting a warehouse near the docks, looking into a sketchy fighting ring that had cropped up a couple of weeks prior. These kinds of rings tended not to last long because of the cops, but she was fine following the mayhem and carnage as it moved here and there. Her fists were wrapped already, her white tank top tight, a pair of cargo pants on that weren't so tight as to restrict movement, but weren't so loose that they could be used against her. Even though it was her first time here, she intended on picking a fight.
The warehouse was on the smaller side, but packed full of the unsavory sort. Bia didn't care how clean her violence was. She let the wave of aggression roll over her and she looked to the makeshift ring as two men beat the living daylights out of one another. A smaller guy, Mexican if she had to guess, was currently trouncing a pretty faced Caucasian guy. Christi lamented the fact that the pretty boy was going to have a ruined face, but Bia couldn't bring herself to care. The way the small guy laid into the bigger one was masterful. She could feel the other fighters in the crowd more than see them, but she finally spotted them, lining the other side of the ring, waiting their turn to join in the carnage and try to win whatever prize it was today.