Chapter 15: Scissorhold Symphony
The wet crunch of Violet’s face hitting the mat echoed sickeningly under the roar of the crowd. Ingrid felt the impact vibrate up her arm, clenched tight in Violet’s greasy hair. Blood sprayed, warm and metallic, across Ingrid’s thighs, her stomach, the canvas already slick beneath them. Violet’s scream died into a choked, bubbling gurgle. Her fingers, knuckle-deep and scraping, spasmed violently inside Ingrid – a final, agonized reflex before going terrifyingly slack.
Ingrid didn’t let go. She held the legsissors locked, the crushing pressure on Violet’s ribs unrelenting even as Violet’s body went limp beneath her. Her own core throbbed with a deep, bruised agony, a raw echo of the violation Violet had inflicted. Sweat dripped from Ingrid’s chin onto Violet’s ruined face, mixing with the blood pooling beneath her shattered nose. Violet’s chest barely rose. Each shallow, wet gasp sounded like a death rattle.
The referee hovered, hesitant, hand half-raised. Ingrid ignored him. Her steely blue eyes, narrowed against the sting of sweat and blood, stayed fixed on Violet’s slack features. Hatred still simmered beneath the exhaustion and pain. She shifted her weight minutely, grinding her powerful thigh directly onto the worst fracture she’d felt give way. Violet’s body jerked once, a silent convulsion, her eyes rolling white under half-closed lids. No sound escaped her swollen, broken lips. Just a fresh trickle of crimson.
Only then did Ingrid release the pressure. She uncrossed her ankles slowly, deliberately. Violet’s torso slumped bonelessly to the canvas with a wet thud. Ingrid pushed herself up onto her hands and knees, every muscle screaming. The deep gouge on her thigh wept fresh blood onto Violet’s shoulder. Her ankle, where Violet had torqued the sandal strap, sent sharp, hot needles up her calf. She stayed there, head hanging, breathing ragged gasps that scraped her throat raw. The silver platform boots, slick with gore, felt impossibly heavy.
The roar of the crowd solidified into a chant. "Iron Maiden! Iron Maiden!" It washed over her, meaningless noise against the tinnitus ringing in her ears. She spat, a thick glob of blood and saliva landing beside Violet’s ear. It splattered darkly on the stained canvas.
Slowly, painfully, Ingrid pushed herself upright. She swayed, planting the silver boots wide for balance on the treacherous surface. She stood over Violet, a towering, blood-streaked monument. The black leather corset was ripped near her ribs, revealing angry red scratches beneath. The skimpy red shorts were soaked dark crimson down one leg. Her exposed toes inside the transparent toe boxes of the boots curled against the cool plastic, aching. She scanned the faceless, screaming mob beyond the cage, her expression granite. Exhaustion etched deep lines around her eyes, but her spine was ramrod straight.
The referee finally knelt beside Violet, checking her pulse, shining a penlight into her unresponsive eyes. He looked up at the cage-side medic, a grim-faced woman already pushing through the ropes with a stretcher. He raised his hand, fingers splayed wide. "Five!" His voice cut through the din. "Winner by knockout! Ingrid 'The Iron Maiden' Nielsen!"
The crowd erupted again. Ingrid didn’t react. She watched impassively as the medics carefully rolled Violet onto the stretcher. The tattered purple kimono was glued to her skin with blood. One intricately beaded flip-flop hung precariously from her foot; the other lay discarded near the cage wall. Violet’s face was a swollen, unrecognizable mess. As they lifted her, a low, animal moan escaped her lips. Ingrid’s jaw tightened.
Two handlers rushed into the cage, towels in hand. One started dabbing roughly at the blood on Ingrid’s thigh. She flinched, batting his hand away with a sharp grunt. "Don't." Her voice was sandpaper. She took the towel herself, pressing it hard against the gouge. The sting was sharp, clarifying. The other handler offered her a water bottle. She took it, gulping greedily, the lukewarm liquid barely touching the desert in her throat.
"Tough one, Ingrid," the handler mumbled, eyeing Violet’s stretcher being carried out. "Old bitch still had venom."
Ingrid just grunted, wiping blood from her mouth with the back of her hand. Her gaze drifted past him, towards the cage entrance tunnel. The next fight. Always the next fight. The adrenaline was crashing hard now, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness and the throbbing symphony of her injuries: the raw core, the screaming thigh, the hot ache in her ankle, the sting of scratches everywhere Violet’s nails had found purchase.
The crowd’s chant shifted. "Silver! Silver! Silver!" It grew louder, more insistent, drowning out the fading echoes of her own name. A spotlight snapped on, illuminating the tunnel entrance. A figure stood silhouetted against the smoky gloom beyond.
She stepped forward, into the harsh cage light. The red latex catsuit gleamed wetly under the glare, clinging like a second skin to a powerfully built frame. It plunged low at the back, revealing sculpted muscle and the curve of her ass. Her dark hair was slicked back tight. Her face, sharp-featured and devoid of mercy, scanned the cage, lingering on the bloodstains where Violet had lain, before locking onto Ingrid. Her eyes were chips of obsidian.
She wore high-heeled, open-toed boots the same violent red as her suit. The soles of her feet, visible through the clear platforms, were painted with intricate, swirling patterns in stark black – like poisonous spiders. She stretched, a slow, deliberate movement that showcased her strength and flexibility, the latex whispering. Her painted toes flexed inside the boots.
The referee approached Ingrid again. "You got five minutes, Nielsen. Need the medic?"
Ingrid shook her head curtly, spitting another mouthful of coppery residue onto the canvas. "I’m good." She wasn’t. Every breath hurt. Her ankle protested as she shifted her weight. But showing weakness here was death.
The woman in red stepped fully into the cage, moving with a predator’s grace despite the heels. She stopped a few feet from Ingrid, ignoring the handlers. Her gaze raked over Ingrid’s battered body, the ripped corset, the blood-soaked shorts, the silver boots smeared with gore. A slow, cold smile touched her lips, revealing perfect white teeth.
"Looks like Violet left her mark," she said, her voice a low, smooth contralto that carried easily over the crowd’s noise. She tilted her head, examining the deep wound on Ingrid’s thigh. "Messy bitch. Always was." Her black eyes lifted to meet Ingrid’s. "Hope she didn’t wear you out too much, Maiden. I’d hate for this to be… unsatisfying."
Ingrid stared back, her own expression unreadable. The exhaustion was a physical weight, but her blue eyes remained glacial, focused. She dropped the blood-soaked towel. "Don’t worry," she rasped, her voice rough but steady. "Plenty left for you." She flexed her toes inside the silver platforms, feeling the plastic bite into the bruises Violet had inflicted. "What’s your poison, Red? Besides cheap latex?"
The woman’s smile didn’t waver. She took another step closer, the scent of her perfume – something cloying and expensive – cutting through the stench of blood and sweat. "Call me Scarlett," she purred. She lifted one red-booted foot, tapping the clear sole lightly on the stained canvas. Her painted toes, the black spiderweb designs stark against her skin, curled deliberately. "And my poison?" She leaned in slightly, her obsidian eyes boring into Ingrid’s. "It’s slow. It’s deep. And it always finds the softest spot." Her gaze flickered downwards, towards Ingrid’s core, then back up, loaded with cruel promise. "Ask Violet… if she ever wakes up."
The referee stepped between them. "Fighters! Back to corners!" Scarlett held Ingrid’s gaze for a heartbeat longer, the cold smile still playing on her lips, before turning with a fluid swirl of red latex and walking towards her corner. Her boot heels clicked sharply on the canvas.
Ingrid turned, forcing herself to walk steadily towards her own corner, ignoring the fire in her thigh and the protest in her ankle. The handlers were there, offering more water, a fresh towel. She waved them off, leaning against the cage wall, the cold steel a shock against her overheated skin. She closed her eyes for just a second, blocking out the roar of "Scarlett! Scarlett! Scarlett!", focusing inward. Breathing through the pain. Assessing the damage. Violet’s parting gift throbbed deep inside her, a constant, raw reminder. Her ankle felt unstable. The thigh wound bled sluggishly.
She opened her eyes. Scarlett was stretching in her corner, a display of terrifying flexibility. She bent forward, palms flat on the canvas, her red-clad ass high in the air, the open toes of her boots pointing backwards. She held it, then slowly arched her back, looking upside down at Ingrid across the cage, that same cold smile twisting her features.
The bell clanged. Sharp. Final.
Ingrid pushed off the cage wall. The pain flared, bright and hot, but she locked it down. She stepped forward, her silver platform boots planting firmly on the bloodstained mat. Her eyes never left Scarlett, who uncoiled like a viper, rising smoothly to her full height. The red latex gleamed. The painted spiders on her soles seemed to writhe.
Scarlett took a step, then another, closing the distance with deceptive ease. Her black eyes were fixed on Ingrid’s, unblinking. The crowd noise faded into a buzzing hum. Ingrid felt the familiar, cold focus descend, narrowing the world to the woman in red, the cage, the pain, and the next move. Scarlett stopped just out of arm's reach. She didn't feint. Didn't posture. She simply smiled that icy smile and raised her hands, fingers curled slightly, the red nails like talons.
"Come on, Maiden," Scarlett murmured, the sound barely carrying over the sudden hush. "Show me what iron feels like when it breaks."
Ingrid shifted her weight onto her good leg, the silver boot flexing. She didn't speak. Her answer was the tightening of her fists, the slight forward lean of her powerful body, the glacial fire igniting in her blue eyes. The space between them crackled.