Chapter 13: Pre-Fight Confession
The stale air in the locker room tasted of sweat, cheap disinfectant, and something vaguely metallic. Violet Moreau sat on a grimy bench, her naked back pressed against peeling paint, a fresh bruise already blossoming purple over her cracked ribs. Every breath was a knife-twist she ignored. Her eyes, that poisonous green, were fixed with terrifying intensity on the footwear in her lap.
They weren’t her usual beaded flip-flops. These were heavier, the soles thicker, crafted from a dull, dark composite material. With scarred, trembling fingers, Violet pried open a nearly invisible seam along the edge of one sole. Inside gleamed a row of short, viciously sharp steel blades, fused into the rubber. Razor-flips. She tested one edge with her thumb, drawing a bead of blood. She smiled, a thin, bitter slash.
Across the narrow space, Ingrid Nielsen stood motionless near a cracked mirror. She was nude except for her intricate gladiator sandals, the cold metal studs catching the flickering fluorescent light. She meticulously reapplied oil to her powerful shoulders and arms, the muscles rolling like cables beneath slick skin. The long, stinging scratches down her belly and the deeper ache radiating from her inner thigh were ignored. Her reflection showed calm, almost detached focus. The only movement was the rhythmic flexing of her exposed toes against the concrete floor.
Violet hissed softly as she secured the final strap, the reinforced sole hiding its deadly secret once more. She stood, moving with the cautious grace of someone nursing multiple injuries. She limped past Ingrid, heading for the door to the arena corridor, her bare feet silent on the damp concrete. As she drew level, she stopped, close enough for Ingrid to smell the blood on her breath and the sharp tang of her pain.
She didn’t look at Ingrid. She stared straight ahead, her voice a low, guttural rasp that barely carried over the distant roar of the crowd. “That kneecap,” she whispered, the words thick with malice. “Remember it.”
Ingrid continued oiling her forearm, her expression unchanging.
Violet’s whisper sharpened, gaining venom. “Gonna carve up those pretty iron thighs of yours. First blood comes from me this time. Slow.” She tilted her head fractionally, her green eyes finally flicking towards Ingrid’s oiled legs. “Then… pin you screaming against the cage. Let the razors do the rest till you come. Hard. Painful. For the whole damn world to see.” A choked, humorless sound escaped her. “Break you open like cheap fruit, Maiden.”
Ingrid lowered her arm. She turned her head, her steely blue gaze meeting Violet’s poison-green one without flinching. The air crackled. Her voice, when it came, was a low, gravelly counterpoint, still slightly rough from Violet’s silk garrote. “Dull blades, Violet.” She glanced pointedly at the flip-flops. “Saw the drag on the edge. Need a better grind.” She turned back to the mirror, picking up the oil bottle again. “Old tricks. Weak execution. Like your ribs.”
Violet’s knuckles, gripping the doorframe, turned white. Her jaw clenched, the muscles standing out like cords in her scarred neck. The raw hatred radiating from her was almost palpable. She sucked in a shallow, painful breath, the threat hanging thick and ugly between them.
The locker room door creaked open. Rico, a slab of muscle in a too-tight security shirt, stuck his head in, his eyes widening slightly at the tension. “Uh, ladies? Cage is ready. Time to… uh… walk.” His voice was unnaturally loud in the charged silence.
Violet pushed off the doorframe without another word, the new flip-flops making a faint, heavy clack on the concrete, distinct from her usual softer tread. She limped out, her back rigid with fury.
Ingrid capped the oil. She took one final look in the mirror, adjusted a sandal strap near her ankle, and followed, her own steps measured and solid in the high heels, her oiled skin gleaming under the harsh lights. The corridor leading to the cage was dim, the roar of the unseen crowd growing louder with each step, a hungry, rhythmic pounding. Ahead, Violet’s silhouette was hunched, radiating pain and lethal intent.
They turned a corner. The cage entrance loomed, a rectangle of blinding light and deafening noise. Violet paused just before the threshold, her shoulders tense. She looked down at her feet, then slowly, deliberately, dragged the reinforced sole of one flip-flop along the metal doorjamb.
Scrrraaaaaape. The sound was high-pitched, metallic, deliberate. It cut through the crowd noise for an instant. A promise etched in steel on steel. She didn’t look back. She stepped into the light, greeted by a wave of mixed boos and cheers that seemed to feed her bitter energy.
Ingrid paused. She watched Violet’s back disappear into the glare. Her own hand rested briefly on the cold metal where Violet’s blade had scraped. She flexed the fingers of her other hand, feeling the power coiled in her arm, the lingering sting of scratches, the deep throb of the bite. Her expression remained unreadable, a mask of cold focus. Then, without a sound, she followed, the click of her gladiator heels a counter-rhythm to Violet’s heavy tread as they both vanished into the arena’s blinding maw. The cage door clanged shut behind them with finality.
The cage door clanged shut behind them with finality. The roar hit like a physical blow, thick with bloodlust and cheap beer fumes. Violet didn’t hesitate. She lunged forward, not at Ingrid, but sideways, dragging the reinforced sole of her right flip-flop hard across the cold steel mesh of the cage wall.
Scrrraaaaaape! The sound was pure, grating malice, echoing the locker room promise. Sparks flew briefly. Ingrid tracked the movement, her oiled muscles coiling, sandals planted wide. Violet spun, her movements sharp despite the limp, the flip-flop leaving a faint, gleaming scratch on the metal. Her green eyes burned with focused hatred.
"See that, Maiden?" Violet hissed, her voice cutting through the din. She raised the flip-flop slightly, the sole angled towards Ingrid. "Your skin's next. Gonna etch my name right across those iron thighs." She feinted low, then darted high, the blade-edge flashing as she whipped her foot upwards in a vicious arc aimed directly at the long scratches on Ingrid’s belly.
Ingrid jerked back, the studded heel of her sandal scraping canvas. Violet’s kick missed flesh but sliced through the air inches away, the displaced air cold on Ingrid’s oiled skin. Violet landed lightly, favoring her shattered knee, a feral grin twisting her scarred face. "Ticklish?"
Ingrid surged forward, a powerhouse piston. Her fist rocketed out, a hammer blow aimed at Violet’s damaged ribs. Violet twisted, impossibly fast, letting the punch graze her bruised side. Agony flashed across her face, but she used the momentum, pivoting on her good leg. Her bladed flip-flop lashed out sideways like a scythe, aiming for the vulnerable tendons behind Ingrid’s bare ankle.
Ingrid saw it coming. She yanked her foot back, the razor-edge whistling past. Too close. Violet pressed, relentless. She wasn’t trying for knockout blows; she was carving, slicing. Another kick, lower this time, the blade scraping a stinging line across Ingrid’s oiled calf muscle. Blood welled, thin and bright against the slick sheen.
"First blood," Violet spat triumphantly, dancing back just out of reach. She gestured at the shallow cut. "Told you. Slow." She dragged the sole of her flip-flop along the canvas, leaving a faint smear of Ingrid’s blood. "Just warming the blades."
Ingrid glanced down at the cut, then back at Violet. Her expression was granite. "Dull," she repeated, her voice flat. "Like your wit." She feigned a stumble, her sandal twisting slightly on the slick canvas. A gasp rippled through the crowd.
Violet saw the opening. She exploded forward, a desperate, pained lunge fueled by pure venom. Her bladed flip-flop whipped upwards again, higher this time, aiming not for thighs or belly, but for Ingrid’s exposed face – a blinding, disfiguring strike. "OPEN WIDE, BITCH!"
Ingrid wasn't stumbling. She dropped. Not backwards, but straight down, her powerful legs folding beneath her like springs. Violet’s kick sailed harmlessly over her head. As Violet stumbled forward, overextended, Ingrid exploded upwards from her crouch. Her shoulder drove like a battering ram into Violet’s unprotected midsection, right below the cracked ribs.
The impact was sickening. Violet’s breath exploded in a wet, agonized whoosh. She doubled over, her flip-flops leaving the canvas as she was lifted slightly. Ingrid drove forward, pinning Violet hard against the unforgiving steel mesh. The crowd roared, a wall of sound vibrating the cage.
Violet gasped, pinned like a butterfly. Ingrid’s forearm pressed like an iron bar across her collarbone, crushing her against the cold bars. Violet’s bladed feet scrabbled weakly against Ingrid’s oiled thighs, the razor-edges scraping harmlessly against slick skin, unable to gain purchase or bite deep. Ingrid leaned in, her face inches from Violet’s contorted one.
"Still cracked," Ingrid growled, the sound vibrating through Violet’s body. She shifted her weight, grinding Violet harder into the mesh. Violet whimpered, her ribs screaming. Ingrid’s free hand grabbed Violet’s chin, forcing her to meet those icy blue eyes. "Where’s your peel now?"
Violet’s eyes, wide with pain and fury, darted down. Not at Ingrid’s face, but lower. At the intricate straps of Ingrid’s gladiator sandal, inches from her own bare, vulnerable foot pinned awkwardly against the cage floor. A desperate plan flickered in her poison-green gaze. She stopped struggling against the pin. She went limp for a fraction of a second, making her body heavier, harder to hold.
Ingrid adjusted her grip, tightening the forearm across Violet’s throat. Violet sucked in a shallow, ragged breath. Then, with a surge of wiry strength fueled by pure desperation, she twisted her pinned foot sideways. Her toes scrabbled against the cage floor, finding momentary purchase. She pushed.
Not up. Not back. Down. She slid her body downwards along the mesh, scraping skin raw, forcing Ingrid’s crushing forearm lower. Violet’s head dipped below Ingrid’s forearm, her torso bending painfully. Her face was now level with Ingrid’s hips, her knees buckling. Ingrid instinctively shifted her weight forward to maintain the pin, her sandaled feet planted firmly.
Violet collapsed fully onto her knees on the canvas with a grunt of agony, jarring her shattered kneecap. But she was free of the worst pressure. Before Ingrid could react, Violet lunged forward from her knees, not away, but towards Ingrid’s legs. Her hands shot out, not to push, but to grab.
Her fingers, like talons, clamped onto Ingrid’s bare ankles just above the sandal straps. Violet yanked downwards with all her wiry strength, pulling Ingrid’s feet out from under her. Ingrid staggered, thrown off balance by the sudden pull at her base. She windmilled her arms, fighting gravity.
Ingrid crashed backwards onto the canvas, the impact jolting her spine. Violet was already moving. Scrabbling. Ignoring the white-hot agony in her knee and ribs, fueled by adrenaline and hate, she dragged herself forward on her elbows and knees. Her bladed flip-flops scraped the canvas as she crawled.
VIOLET CRAWLS CLOSER.
Her eyes were locked on Ingrid’s sprawled legs, on the powerful thighs gleaming with oil and sweat, on the vulnerable expanse of inner flesh above the sandal straps. Violet’s breath came in harsh, wet rasps. Her lips peeled back in a rictus of effort and malice. Inches away now. She raised her right foot, the reinforced sole glinting under the arena lights, the hidden blades angled downwards. She aimed for the soft, scarred flesh high on Ingrid’s inner thigh – the place she’d bitten, the place she’d promised to carve. Her voice was a guttural rasp, thick with pain and triumph. "Peel... time..."
The blade hovered inches from the scarred flesh of Ingrid’s inner thigh, Violet’s rasping breath hot against her skin. Triumph warred with agony in Violet’s poison-green eyes. "Peel... time..." she gasped, the reinforced sole trembling slightly with the effort of holding position, the hidden razors gleaming under the harsh lights. Ingrid stared up from the canvas, sprawled on her back, the sting of the calf cut a fresh insult layered over the deep ache of the bite and the scratches.
Then Ingrid moved. Not to scramble away, not to block the descending blade. She rolled. Fast. A powerful twist of her oiled torso and hips that wrenched her pinned ankle violently sideways. Violet’s grip, weakened by shattered ribs and a broken knee, tore loose. Violet cried out, her blade scraping harmlessly across canvas as Ingrid rolled clear and surged upright onto her sandals in one fluid motion. She stood, breathing hard, oil and blood slicking her legs, the crowd noise a distant thrumming in her ears.
Violet pushed herself up onto her elbows, snarling, her wiry frame trembling with pain and thwarted fury. She dragged a bladed flip-flop back, preparing to slash again. Ingrid didn’t flinch. Her steely blue eyes locked onto Violet’s. Slowly, deliberately, Ingrid reached behind her back. Her fingers found the clasp of her black leather corset. A sharp click echoed, unnaturally loud.
The corset fell away, hitting the canvas with a soft thud. Ingrid stood taller, her powerful shoulders and back fully exposed, the muscles rippling beneath sweat-slicked skin. The crowd gasped, a collective intake of breath. Violet froze, her bladed foot poised mid-air, confusion momentarily replacing hatred on her scarred face. Ingrid’s hands moved to the waistband of her skimpy red shorts.
Another clasp released. The shorts slid down her oiled thighs, pooling around her ankles on the stained canvas. Ingrid stepped out of them, kicking them aside with a bare foot. She stood completely naked now except for the intricate gladiator sandals strapped up her calves, the metal studs catching the light. Every scar, every powerful line of muscle from shoulders to calves was laid bare, gleaming under the harsh arena lights. The scratches on her belly, the bleeding line on her calf, the deep bruise forming on her inner thigh – all were exposed. She radiated not vulnerability, but terrifying, absolute ownership of her own battered power.
Violet stared, her bladed flip-flop still raised, forgotten. Ingrid flexed her shoulders, the movement predatory. Her voice, rough from the choke but utterly calm, cut through the stunned silence. "See it all now, Violet?" She took a single step forward, her sandal clicking decisively on the canvas. Her nakedness was a challenge, a dare. "Come peel it." She spread her arms slightly, palms open, inviting the attack. "Show me where your blades bite deepest."
Violet’s lips peeled back from her teeth in a silent snarl. The hatred flooded back, hotter than before, mingled with a raw, primal shock. Her knuckles whitened where she gripped the canvas for balance. The razor-edge of her flip-flop trembled. She glanced down at Ingrid’s exposed feet in the sandals, the oiled arches and toes, then back up at the towering, naked figure daring her forward. The blade hovered. The arena held its breath. Violet’s poisoned whisper was barely audible. "You... crazy..."
"Crazy..." Violet rasped, the word a dry leaf scraping concrete. Her bladed flip-flop finally slammed down, not on Ingrid’s thigh, but embedding its razors deep into the canvas where Ingrid’s leg had been a split-second before. Ingrid hadn’t retreated; she’d surged forward. Her oiled shoulder crashed into Violet’s chest, driving the air from Violet’s already tortured lungs in a strangled wheeze. Violet staggered back, ribs shrieking, her flip-flops scrabbling for purchase on the slick mat.
Ingrid pressed the assault, relentless. A piston-hard jab snapped Violet’s head back. Blood sprayed from her nose, a crimson arc in the harsh light. Violet reeled, vision swimming. She instinctively lashed out with her good leg, the reinforced sole catching Ingrid high on the outer thigh. Leather and skin parted. A deep, burning line opened up, blood welling thick and fast, mixing with the oil. Ingrid barely flinched.
"Told you... first blood..." Violet choked, stumbling, trying to circle away from the cage wall. The deep cut on Ingrid’s thigh pumped red, staining the oil dark. Ingrid’s eyes, cold chips of Arctic ice, tracked the blood dripping onto her sandal strap. She didn’t look at the wound. She looked only at Violet. Violet’s momentary triumph curdled into fear as Ingrid planted her feet, blood and sweat slicking the canvas beneath her heels. Ingrid bent her knees, coiling power.
Violet saw the scissor setup coming. Panic flared, white-hot. She tried to dart sideways, but her shattered knee buckled. Agony lanced up her leg. Too slow. Ingrid launched herself backwards, crashing onto the mat. Her powerful legs shot out like twin pistons. Her right leg hooked behind Violet’s shoulders as her left slammed across Violet’s lower chest, just below the tapestry of bruises and cracked ribs. Ingrid crossed her ankles behind Violet’s back with a brutal clack of sandal straps.
The legsissors clamped shut.
Violet’s scream wasn’t human. It was the sound of bones groaning under impossible pressure, of lungs collapsing. Her ribs bowed inward, grinding against the trauma already there. Her hands flew up, clawing at Ingrid’s thick thigh muscles, slick with sweat, oil, and her own blood. Nails skittered uselessly, leaving faint red trails. Ingrid squeezed harder, a relentless hydraulic press. Violet’s scream choked off into wet, desperate gurgles. Her face purpled, eyes bulging, fixed on Ingrid’s merciless face above her.
"Off...!" Violet wheezed, a bubble of bloody spit bursting on her lips. Her struggles were frantic, weakening. Her shattered knee ground horribly against the canvas, ignored. Her green eyes, filled with animal terror, darted down Ingrid’s body. Past the crushing thighs, past the bleeding gash on her outer leg, past the oiled abdomen. They locked onto the exposed mound between Ingrid’s spread legs, inches from Violet’s trapped face.
Pure, venomous hatred surged through Violet’s agony. Make her scream. Make her break. With the last dregs of her strength, ignoring the grinding destruction of her own chest, Violet drove her hand down. Not to push. Not to claw at thighs. Her fingers, like talons, speared between Ingrid’s legs. She bypassed the vulnerable folds, aiming straight for the swollen, sensitive knot of nerves – still tender from the bite, still radiating its deep, persistent throb. Violet’s thumb jammed down hard, grinding in a brutal, circular motion. Her knuckle dug deep, seeking the epicenter of discomfort.
Fire and ice exploded through Ingrid’s core. A shockwave of pure, invasive agony ripped through her, a thousand times worse than the bite, worse than the razors. She gasped, a raw, involuntary sound tearing from her throat. Every muscle in her body locked rigid, including the thighs crushing Violet. Violet saw it – the flicker of excruciating pain in the ice-blue eyes, the tightening around the mouth. She twisted her knuckle deeper, grinding relentlessly.
"Hurt?" Violet spat, the word thick with blood and malice, her voice barely audible above her own choking breaths and the crowd’s roar. "Good." She increased the pressure, her finger jabbing viciously. "Come on, Iron Bitch! Come hard!" Her other hand joined the assault, fingers scrabbling, nails scraping the inflamed, swollen flesh, trying to hook inside, to tear. "Scream... for... me...!"
Ingrid’s jaw clenched so tight her teeth ached. Stars burst behind her eyes. The pain was blinding, a white-hot poker twisting deep inside her, radiating outwards, threatening to shatter her control. Violet’s fingers were relentless, invasive, a violation that burned worse than any blade. Her thighs trembled with the instinct to snap open, to recoil from the torture. She saw Valeria’s broken face. She saw Violet’s venomous smirk as she’d bitten her.
Never.
Ingrid roared. Not in pain, but in pure, feral defiance. She didn’t open her legs. She squeezed. Harder. Crushing down with all her immense strength, driving Violet’s ribs further towards her spine. She felt the sickening shift beneath her thighs, the wet crackle of bone fragments moving. Violet’s brutal assault on her sex faltered, her fingers spasming as a fresh wave of suffocating agony overwhelmed her. Violet shrieked again, a high, wet sound, her eyes rolling back. But her fingers, slick with blood and slick, didn’t fully relent. They kept clawing, scraping, trying to force the blinding release through sheer, invasive pain even as her own body was being destroyed. Ingrid held the scissor, the veins standing out on her neck, sweat and blood mingling on her skin, enduring the searing violation. Violet’s weakening fingers still worked, a desperate, grisly counterpoint to the relentless pressure collapsing her chest. Ingrid squeezed harder.