Man... SCREW THOSE GEEKY LITTLE CHUMPS! It's been damn near a sweep and half since those mega-nerds went out rumble chasing with you. Sure, shit hit the fan last time, but that’s the past party people! You. Are. Fellis, MOTHERING FUCKING, Victus, BABY!!! Roughest rust this planet has to offer. Ain't nothing bout anything gonna stop you from raising some ruckus... even if that nothing is being alone. ENOUGH SAP!!! The Riot Room is more fun alone anyway. Less wet nap-rags to hold you back.
Speaking of, you're itching for a fight. Like literally itching. Your horn-stub is still tingling from that big guy who elbowed it earlier. Normally, it'd be impossible to find someone you don't know in a dark room like this. With all of the flashing colors and grooving, low-blood bodies. It would be like surfing a tidal wave while trying to find a particular grain of sand. A bunch of sand that looks exactly the same.
This guy though...It's not just the height, or the force behind his shove, but something internally. Some sixth sense that has your burgundy blood boiling. There's a lingering heat on your stump, the kind a low blood can't leave... You might have quite a battle ahead of yoursel.
You get your ass up and make your way to the bar. You aren't looking for a drink though. Drinking is for chumps, chumps like the numb nook who bopped you. As usual, the stools are full of losers. You could go stare down every troll up there, see who flinches. But that would take hours and likely end with you scrapping some fussy-fanged drunkard. Screw that, you've got better tactics.
It's a good game of hemo-guesser. You're carefully scanning all the horns when something catches your attention. Surrounded by the simple curves, spikes, and familiar four-prongs are a set of arrow heads. They're bent weird and even patchier than the likes of some low-blood brethren you know, but the shape is unmistakable. It makes you question how he even got in here.
You've found yourself splattered in plenty of pretty colors before, but you tend to stick to the warmer side of the hemospectrum. There's a twisty feeling in your acid cavern, but you shake it off. This certainly won't be a casual, loose claw, tussle, but you won't back out now. Not before you've even started.
You suck in a breath of musky air and pull yourself into the barstool next to him. This is gonna be calculated, and cool. You gotta channel your toughest depths for this.
"Heya man. What brings you here, ay? You lost?" In your head, the words rolled off like a smooth record. But you know damn well it came out scratchy and weak. You sound like a wimp who got Double Dire Dared to speak to them.
They glance around, purposefully pretending not to see you before they hit you with a patronizing glazed stare. "Nah! Just burning time before I gotta worry about the blazing sky. You feel?"
The whating fuck? You've got no clue what he's blabbering about. But he's burning time in the wrong damn place. Now he's leaning down into your face, like he's tryna hear you better. As if you'd wanna hold a conversation with this booze brained bitch. You can smell douchery on his breath. Probably some rotting cells too.
He leans to the side a bit, and for a moment you're relieved. It felt like he was trying to bore a hole through you with that wide ass sun-staring glare. You wonder if this is even worth your time. Then just as you start sliding down, he grabs a hold of your stump.
It's out of your control from there. Mother escalation has never came quicker than this. You lurch forward, the feeling of cold flesh clashing with your finger tips. That familiar sensation of cool, thick spill coats your skin. This time, it's a new color. Darker yet somehow sweeter than any you've seen before. You're savoring the feeling and deeply anticipating the repercussions.
But nothing comes.
"Shit, I'm sorry my guy! Missed my manners." He wipes his cut like it's nothing new. Like the gash is barly a scratch. "Hah, you sling some sharp talons for a runt."
You're stunned. You thought indigos were fighters. What's his problem? What's his deal? Bumping your stub. Grabbing your horn. Apologizing and calling you a runt in the SAME DAMN SENTENCE?? DOES HE WANT A FIGHT OR NOT?? Your mind is already made. He's getting one.
A blood curdling screech throws you forward, your body slamming into the stool that your target just leaped from. There's no time to catch your breath as he's already pushing through the crowd. You follow the trail in hot pursuit, shoving and stumbling your way through the sea of bodies. Thankfully he's hard to miss.
This club isn't the biggest, and soon enough he's backed into a corner. There's no more running. Circling in, you now have the chance to get a better look at the damages. The slash is just below his eye, some of the blood splattered into his lower lashes. Its deep blue hue is complimented by the colored lighting in a way you've never seen before. You can't help but pause to admire it. Knowing it's your work sends a rush of power through you.
With a clenched fist you launch forward. But in the seconds it takes you to get ready, your opponent has kicked open the backdoor behind him. You fly forward into the alley and nearly eat shit on the pavement. That damned exit door slams shut and he stands in front of it. The moonlight falls on his face, illuminating the sharp grin pulling at his lips.
A deep growl shakes your breathing, an unsuppressable sign of rage. You could think of some cocky quips, but talking is a waste of breath.
Fed up with the chase you tighten your fist, your own claws pricking at your skin. With a full body twist you throw the first actual punch. It makes contact but the bastard doesn't even flinch! He just stands there with crossed arms, absorbing it like a sponge.
You pummel him with reckless abandon. Swinging till your punches get weak. Till your gas-sacks are dry from puffing. Till you're just palming his chest with open hands. Claws skating against fabric. You're about as pathetic as an elderly meow-beast struggling against a scratching post.
Suddenly you're snapped out as he pushes you back. His grip on your shoulders is almost tender. "You done, buddy? Keep going if you need to, but you're tearing up my top, guy."
When pushed back you can see his chest and... the skin underneath where you tore. Well, not just skin, no. You spot the tape above his grub scars. Tape that is unmistakably holding down some globular sacks of fat...and muscle.
Red rushing up your face you bounce back, shoulders raised like a cat on its haunches . "You..! You're a fucking chick?"
She's laughing it off like it's some big joke. But you genuinely thought you were fighting a dude. If you can even call that fighting. You can't decide which is more embarrassing, the fact you couldnt tell, or the fact she kicked your ass without even kicking it. Fuck. You feel dumb.
Any lingering anger has been drowned in the sudden onslaught of embarrassment. There's no way to recover from this. You've met your match... and it's an elusive indigo girl. There goes your pride. You might as well grovel while you're at it. Of course, you'd have to know her name to do that.
To maintain your cool "tough guy" sportsmanship, you take off your shirt and pass it up to her. She tears off the remains of her tattered top and trades you half of it. It's a weird gesture, but you appreciate the sweat rag. You wipe your brow and try to ignore the rancid smell of the other trolls musk. Your shirt barely fits her, the tight threads squeezing around her toned frame. Anyway, she seems content. If anything, she's practically beaming. You don't quite get it.
"I'm Fellis," you grunt, crossing your arms over your chest. Night air sure is cold.
"Navini," she replies. "Sorry I'm not much of a fight. I'm a tad bit against slinging and slashing, yeah? Don't mind testing my defense though. You uh...You could work on you're socking, but you cut decent."
A compliment? Damn she's weird. That's fair enough to say. However, you can't help appreciating the feedback. "Thanks," you mutter, forcing a frown against the smile that tries to fight it's way up your lips. The result is a snarky curled lip expression.
There's a patch of silence as you both lean on the dusty brick wall. Neither of you feel obligated to speak. It's almost peaceful. This is then broken by a buzzing from your pocket. Navini peaks over your shoulder, but you can't be bothered to push her away. It's a buddy bugging you. The plant geek, not four eyes. Though knowing her it's something to do with four-eyes. You should probably answer... In a bit.
When you feel like it...
Do you?