2 Ymiden, 720
Fortress
Fortress
“Toothpick,” shouted the drill sergeant. “And Jowls”
Following drill formations, the Infantrymen were tasked with martials training, both armed and with their bare hands. It seemed fitting that the practice was conducted within the same sandy pits where slaves fought for the amusement of the elite. Toothpick had heard the wagers cast and witnessed the money exchanged by the officers when they thought the conscripts were too far to notice. Their chains were not physical, but they were bound tightly around them all as they were tossed together like dice. ‘One black eye or four, come on place your bets,’
Not that Toothpick was wholly averse to the sparring of course; there were benefits to it, after all, the most obvious of them being it allowed him to better himself in the heat of actual combat. No drilling against invisible foes. Every blow he landed and strike he evaded was raw, physical data that he could analyze and grow from. Learning the hard lessons now, well away from the Creep and the finality they offered, would serve him in the long run.
More importantly, Toothpick appreciated the audience. Not because he was a showman, but because it was his superiors who would be the most invested in the outcomes. Monetarily, of course, but with each victory he could provide them, more and more will begin to learn his name. And that, he was coming to realize, was a valuable currency in its own right. Pad a few pockets now and he might find it easier to progress within the ranks. Was it fair to his peers around him? Not in the slightest, but then again, when was politicking ever fair?
Whether he was fighting in the streets or deep within Fortress, it was all the same concept, one of which Toothpick understood greatly.
Today’s trial was an obvious handful, though, that he could not overlook. Jowls was a Heavy, same as Toothpick, and though he had the height advantage on the former pig farmer, he suspected there was a hidden strength beneath the man’s stocky frame. Toothpick suspected that the man had wrangled hogs that outweighed them both, so he couldn’t expect to overwhelm the man with brute force. He’d have to approach this one tactically.
The two Heavies moved into the center of the human ring, the boundaries of their contest, and tapped fists together before falling back into their fighting stance. Respect. It had been drilled into them early, knowing full well that it was not a concept everyone had believed in before they had been drafted. Before, class and circumstance had separated them, and it was easy to distrust someone who didn’t live the way you lived. Jealousy, it had been said, was a civilian’s reward for the sacrifices of a common soldier, who shared the burdens equally out there on the battlefield. Toothpick wasn’t sure if he believed the sentiment in its entirety, but any doubt he might have wasn’t going to be directed towards the man opposite him. There was no animosity beyond that which fueled competition.
The trumpet sounded to signal the fight as the men began to circle one another. Jowls fell into awkward boxer’s stance, as if it were his first time ever in a fight and he was acting out how he thought it was supposed to look. Which, Toothpick had come to realize, was not an uncommon trend among the conscripts. His violent upbringing had always felt normal growing up until he had found himself out of it. It was only now, looking into the eyes of men who had not known such an existence that Toothpick he had been made aware of his exceptional experiences.
Experiences that had molded him for these very moments.
Toothpick closed the distance, his hands held up to defend his face from a sudden strike, palms facing out. He had always preferred grappling over boxing, using the size advantage that he often possessed to overwhelm his opponents. Uppercuts looked impressive to the casual onlooker, but it had rarely been about show to him before his conscription. Grab him and slam him. A simple game plan, just how he liked it.
Jowls’ sweeping hook came from the direction Toothpick was expecting, allowing him to slow his momentum just short of the man’s reach. Once the arm was passed and he was sure a follow-up was not coming, Toothpick lashed out with a palm, pushing the wrist with his left hand to knock the Heavy further off balance. Tooth launched a knee into Jowl’s abdomen, before moving to his back and locking in a waist lock. Tooth squeezed, looking to apply further stress on the man’s core, squeezing the air out of him as best he could.
A back elbow caught him across the side of the head.
Toothpick stumbled back, stunned, as Jowls sucked in air. He felt hands on his chest as the pig farmer shoved backwards, sending him crashing to the ground. The Heavy landed awkwardly on his back, lacking the acrobatics to tumble through his fall. He did have the wherewithal, though, to snatch up a handful of sand, which he tossed unceremoniously into Jowl’s eyes as he moved closer to capitalize on his downed opponent. Arguably more effective than the chunks of cobblestone he used to throw, and it was a softer landing too.
Rolling onto his hands and knees, Toothpick launched at Jowl’s lower half from the quadrupedal position, slamming his shoulder into Jowl’s abdomen once more while wrapping his thick arms around the man’s pelvic region. With a grunt, Toothpick heaved, looking to slam Jowls, but the Heavy widened his stance. Then, still blinded by the sand, the farmer pried Toothpick’s hands loose from around his waist. He pushed Pick to his feet before barreling forward, using his weight to send them both crashing to the ground. A rush for control ensued.
Toothpick quickly found himself on the bottom, with one arm pinned beneath a knee. Suddenly, he wasn’t in a spar any longer in the recesses of the city’s, with nothing to lose by his pride and his chance at promotion. He was about to died, his brain told him, and he needed to get out of the position. Toothpick’s free hand groped about, looking for any piece of flesh of latch onto. A hand got too close, trying to pin it to the sand.
He found a finger and bent it until it snapped.
Then, he followed the hand upward, along the arm and across the shoulder until it settled on Jowl’s pain stricken face.
And then Toothpick jammed a thumb into his eye socket.
Jowls cried out, falling back away from his wild opponent. Toothpick dove onto the man, enraged by being made to feel vulnerable just a few moments earlier. The Heavy shoved him away and found his feet, but Pick was quickly upon him. Lunging so that his left leg was behind Jowl’s he swept out with his lower half while shoving with his left arm held at a forty five degree angle, as if he were holding a shield in front him. Jowls was knocked off balance, landing shoulders first in the sand.
Toothpick dived onto the man, pinning his arms beneath his knees just like he had done before. Then, staring down at his defenseless opponent, Toothpick punched him twice between the eyes. He would’ve hit him a third time, unable to control himself in the heat of the moment, but the drill sergeant intervened, catching his arm mid-swing. “Enough,” the man said, his sharp tone cutting through the red haze hanging over the Heavy’s eyes.
He felt a multitude of hands grabbing at him a moment later, pulling him free of the unconscious Jowls. Lips and Tom-Tom tugged at him, and then Custard and Whiskers when it was obvious when those two alone couldn’t move him. “Is he d-d-ead?” Tom asked, eyes wide. He had never seen a corpse before.
Toothpick had, though, and he knew that that wasn’t the case this time. He could still see the rising and fall of Jowl’s chest. No matter how hard he had tried to steal his breath, the pig farmer powered through.
The Heavy spit a wad of blood-stained saliva onto the sandy pit as he and his subunit moved to the outskirts of the ring. Jowl’s own subunit was dragging him to the other end to make room for the next bout. The drill sergeant had wasted little time in calling up the next two combatants. Now, he was expected to watch and learn. Always learn.
Toothpick spared a glance in the direction of a gaggle of officers standing pointedly away from the conscripts, hoping to catch an eye. Unfortunately, after the money was exchanged and a few curses exclaimed the memory faded from their collective minds as they turned focus to the next contest. Always the next one, with little care for the faces in it. Was that telling on the divide between officer and conscript?
For the sake of the real fights to come, the Heavy certainly hoped not.
