Fire Emblem Fan Fiction / Fire Emblem Fan Fiction / Pokemon Fan Fiction / Pokemon Fan Fiction / Fan Fiction ❯ Cruel Melee ❯ stray ( Chapter 2 )

A/N: Segment is C. Falcon oriented. Other characters will appear in later segments. Thanks for reading, comments and criticism welcome.

Disclaimer: The following contains characters and concepts that are NOT the property of the author. They are the intellectual property of Nintendo, HAL Laboratories and their associates. The author has received NO monetary benefit from this piece of shit.

Warnings: violence.

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The Quiet City: Stray

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"They're not alive. I don't know why they run."

* * *

The cigarette left a bitter, burning taste on his tongue. He exhaled pale smoke in the dark. Bodies pressed against him, condensed together in the suffocating atmosphere, but he stood unmoving. With his back to the wall of the underground arena, he focused on the scene before him, over a sea of heads. The ring stood elevated and blocked off by a chain-link fence. Inside, two fighters squared off in a match.

Tonight's flavor: survival battle.

Both combatants were armed, circling each other. Blood coated the mat--like a layer of rust beneath the dull lights. One fighter held a rapier in one hand, and the other, smaller and slighter in size, wielded a double-edged blade--a fast, seemingly lightweight weapon--also with a single-handed grip.

Falcon smoked and watched.

The kid had won the previous two fights, eliminating two different opponents, one right after the other. He wouldn't win this one though, Falcon thought. He had been cut open in the last match, a long gash sliced into his left thigh. The medics closed and bandaged it for him in the ring, and then he had gone on with a third match. Already, the rapier had grazed through his clothing multiple times, drawing red lines on his skin that dripped with blood. Then he fucked up on a dodge and earned himself a deep cut along his right side.

Falcon watched and waited patiently for his turn. He would rather fight the fresher guy than the kid. He was here for competition, not easy-pickings.

But the crowd wanted blood. They gambled their fortunes to see these fighters bleed and die. Falcon though, never placed bets. When he wasn't in the ring, he only watched. And he kept an eye on the audience as well. Now he resisted the impulse to turn as he caught a face he knew in the crowd.

Samurai Goroh was here, and he was keeping track of Falcon, his rival in more ways than one.

But for the meantime, Captain ignored him, looking instead to the events inside the ring. He watched as the older opponent feinted and the kid fell for it, going for the parry.

`It's over,' he thought grimly.

With a forward lunge, the older man launched his weapon at the kid's throat. But the strike missed, hitting the kid's shoulder instead. The man had a second to stare blankly at his mistake before he seemed to realize a deep throbbing pain in his lower torso.

Falcon blinked. He had only seen one strike. But there had been two: an attack and a counter. Moving too fast for his opponent to react, the boy had side-stepped. The moment the rapier had pierced his shoulder, he had thrust his weapon into the other fighter's body.

Eyebrows raised, Falcon had to admit he was impressed.

Both blades withdrew, and the older fighter collapsed onto his knees, shocked. The kid backed up, grimacing in pain as he clutched at his bleeding shoulder. Shouts from the crowd pushed for him to finish it. But Falcon caught the weariness in the young fighter's movements as he struggled to step forward, chest heaving with pained breaths. Rather than finishing off his opponent, he raised the sword and slammed down the hilt on the back of the man's neck.

The beaten fighter fell face-down, his own blood spreading dark and thick on the canvas.

Falcon laughed quietly to himself. `Merciful Master.'

Depending on which way they had placed their bets, the spectators either cheered or groaned. As the announcer declared the winner, medics carried out the loser on a stretcher, and they patched up the remaining fighter in the ring. He had chosen to go on with another match.

Falcon shook his head. `Idiot,' he thought, grinding his spent cigarette beneath his boot. `You should have quit while you were ahead.'

The crowd quieted a little while the announcer called the next combatant to the stage. The name drew a loud roar from the audience, all cheers and applause.

"Captain Falcon!"

`Now I'm gonna have to kill you.'

Part of him wanted to walk away, let the kid have his money. But still he found himself shouldering his way through the throngs of spectators to the stage. He mounted the steps and walked inside. A fresh layer of red fluid stuck to his soles.

Falcon sized up the competition. Smaller than him, and probably twenty years younger, a kid with odd hair color and classic fighting attire stood facing him. The stance was misleading, with the sword held almost casually in one hand, on the same side as the leading leg. Fn.'s eyes followed a trail of blood as it crept down the kid's arm, over a knuckle, and onto the decorative hilt of his sword. It did not escape the veteran fighter's notice that the blade's point pressed into the canvas. The kid was leaning on it, his stance unbalanced. He probably couldn't put much weight on his left leg, but he hid it well. As Falcon studied him, the kid lifted an indifferent hand to brush back wet strands of hair.

The boy returned Falcon's scrutiny. He noticed that his opponent was unarmed. Puzzled, he shot a quizzical look at the other man. Under his breath, he murmured something softly that Falcon could not catch.

Falcon only nodded, and the other fighter returned it. Again, the bounty hunter considered the option of forfeiting. He never walked away from a fight, but there was nothing to gain from this. No honor, no satisfaction--just easy money, which he didn't need.

But then the bell sounded, and the decision was made for him. Once any game began, he could not plea no contest -- he could not turn back.

Falcon charged in, all hesitation gone. He threw the first punch, an uppercut that knocked the kid back into the fencing.

The crowd thundered with screams. Wild shouts encouraged violence with intoxicating fervor. And unable to deny them, Falcon sank into stance, pummeling the other fighter with his single fist. Lightning-fast punches hammered into his opponent's chest and mid-section. He finished with a left swing that spun the boy's head, and backed off.

The kid fell, palms against the mat. He coughed out blood, choking on his breath, then struggled to rise. But Falcon was there to grab a fistful of his collar, yanking the light body forward. Spinning, he threw the smaller fighter across the ring. The boy landed roughly, skidding against the floor, sword lost.

Feet pounding against the mat, Captain launched the sliding Falcon kick. But he only touched air while the kid pulled off an unbelievably quick dodge, cloak flaring like a bull fighter's cape. Falcon collided rudely with the chain-link fence. He caught himself and spun around, just as the kid was picking his sword off the mat. A flash of steel swept the floor, biting like a snake into Fn.'s leg and tripping him onto the canvas.

So the kid could put up a fight. Falcon figured he had to respect that. It didn't mean he was gonna go easy though. When the expected follow-up didn't come, Falcon jumped onto his feet and aimed a kick at his opponent's head. It was blocked, but the next one, sweeping for the legs, was not.

The whole thing lasted maybe another minute or two. The kid wasn't as fast as he had been, and the next time that sword swung at Falcon, the Captain dodged behind him, fist pulled back. As the boy turned, the Captain lunged, his fist catching the other in the midsection. His opponent fell.

For a moment, it seemed that the kid might get up again, arms and legs fighting against the mat now. But eventually his body relaxed, finally still, except for the twitching behind his closed eyelids.

`Still fighting?' Falcon thought. `Give it up already, kid.'

Screams from the crowd blistered his ears. But suddenly tired, he turned away from the fallen fighter and stepped out, bumping into the medics as he left the ring. The throng parted for him, still ecstatic enough from the night's last fight to clap him on the back or flash him the thumbs-up. He ignored it all, heading straight for the exit.

He picked up the money at the front. Not much. Only for one win. But it didn't matter. It didn't change his mood as he strode out into the cool night alone. He paused only to light up another cigarette.

`Disregard that voice in the back of your head--that tremor of guilt.'

He remembered the kid's eyes, a look shot at him through a veil of dark bangs. Shaking his head, he stalked on.

`No. Forget it. No guilt. Not this time.'

`You never walk away from a fight. Never.'

* * *

"You gotta name, kid?"

"Yes."

"Care to tell me?"