Little Brute

It was terrifying.

It was always terrifying; she could hear the harsh yelling and jeers of onlookers, could feel the barbed wires of the arena digging into her bones as she tried to ground herself. If she spaced out now, she'd be mauled by her opponent. Anything but pure focus was weakness.

She stared at the larger bitty; another skeleton. He was standing on the other side of the circle, shoulders squared as he stood against the prickly barbed wall. He seemed to be in rough shape; Perhaps he had just finished another fight prior to this one? She could take him. He had some nasty injuries, he wouldn't fight with his full strength. He was weak, and she wasn't.

A loud mechanical buzz filled her head, much louder than the ugly yelling and shouting. That was her cue, time to fight.

Quick as a flash, both bitties darted towards each other, nothing more than a blur of colour in the dirt filled arena. With a grunt, Thistle flung herself at her opponent, teeth barred and grip strong. Her hands scrabbled at his exposed bones, digging in between any crevice she could and pulling with all her might.

She was quickly torn off, the other bitty twisting away from her grip, swiping his leg around and kicking her in the ribs, successfully knocking her to the ground. Without a second to spare, Thistle received a kick to her lower back, causing her to take a sharp inhale as the pain shot through her.

Before another kick could be delt she was quick to roll out of the way, scrambling up and onto her feet within a second, ready to attack.

Her opponent seemed momentarily unbalanced from his kick reaching nothing but air, so she took the chance to rush over and slam her fist into the back of his skull without a second thought. A loud crack resounded through the air as bone met bone, and she could hear the almost inaudible gasp from the larger bitty. She was quick to draw away, pressing her arms up to her chest as she saw the enemy whip around. That collision had hurt her hand for sure, but that didn't measure up to what the punch had done to her opponent.

A large crack rounded around his mandible(where she had decked him), crossing all the way up to his nasal bone. It wasn't the worst, but it definitely did some damage.

After that, all she saw was red. In the blink of an eye the two of them were at each other's throats once again, the roar of the crowd a dull murmur in her metaphorical ears. All she could think of was surviving. She was young; therefore weak. She had to be stronger. She had to survive.

Claw. Scratch. Pound. Anything to make it out. She had to hurt, she had to make others suffer. She had to kill. She had to. She had to. She. Had. To.

For her brother. They needed each other. They'd make it out, they'd be happy. Eventually. They had to.

Her mind snapped back to the wriggling body underneath her. He seemed to be loosing his energy. One of her hands were clawing at an old wound of his, chipping already damaged bone and worsening the injury. Her other dug into an eye socket, yanking and twisting as hard as she could. The larger bitty tried to roll over, but Thistle didn't let him. With a hostile growl she tightened her grip on his eye socket, quickly pulling his skull up; then slamming it harshly onto the ground to get him to stop. She repeated the action once, twice, three times before he finally stopped struggling.

With one last tug, a loud crack was heard as a piece of bone cracked and was torn from his socket, causing him to let out a shallow whimper, unable to cry out from lack of energy. Bits of dust fell from the enemies wounds, showing he was on the brink of falling down.

With one last growl, Thistle quickly pulled herself off the unmoving bitty, barely able to hear the buzzing of the ending bell as magic buzzed in her head.

She won.

A small part of her was happy, satisfied even that she had won. But as she pulled her hands up to see the dust coating them, that feeling was quickly stamped out. She was awful. She had hurt someone again. She didn't want to. She didn't want to hurt people. She was quick to hide her skeletal hands from view, quickly brushing them on her rugged and threadbare shirt. It would take days for the dust to rub off from her bones. Another reminder.

Before she could continue her thoughts, she felt cold, harsh hands grab her. She went still as the familiar voice rung through her ears; talking about how much money she had made them, how much of a brute she was.

She zoned out.

With a yelp, Thistle was pulled from her cloudy mind as she was tossed carelessly into an old rusted crate, bruised bones hitting the hard flooring and making her flinch. She stayed laying down for a few seconds, waiting for the handler to leave before she got up.

Dragging herself over to one of the corners and curling into a ball, she noticed her brother had yet to return. She'd wait for him before going to sleep.

A few minutes passed, and she had pulled her head up onto her knees, being careful of her new wounds. She let a whimper escape herself, starting to violently tremble as large tears fell from her sockets. She didn't want this. She didn't want to hurt anyone.

She didn't want to.