Chapter 8: Bloody Betrayal
Blood sizzled on Ingrid's tongue, metallic and warm. The mat felt gritty against her cheek, smelling of stale sweat and disinfectant. Through the roaring in her ears and the blinding pain where her scalp had nearly been ripped free, she saw it unfold like a brutal ballet.
Valeria, half her face a swollen, crimson mess, teeth missing, lips split and bubbling, didn't hesitate. Revenge burned hotter than agony. With a guttural shriek more animal than human – "You sneaky bitch!" – she launched herself not at Brenda, the source of her smashed jaw, but at Violet, the opportunist who'd tried to finish Ingrid off.
Violet, still anchored to the mat by her grip on Ingrid's hair, yelped in genuine surprise. She tried to twist away, to use Ingrid as a shield, but Valeria was a missile fueled by pure, unadulterated fury. She crashed into Violet, knocking her sideways. Violet’s bony hip slammed into Ingrid’s ribs, stealing her breath. The grip on Ingrid’s hair tore loose, sending fresh needles of fire across her skull.
Valeria was a wildcat. Her hands, tipped with nails that had probably drawn blood before, weren't aiming for Violet’s face. They went straight for the flimsy purple silk covering Violet’s chest. She clawed downwards, not scratching, but grabbing and ripping. The ancient kimono, already frayed, offered no resistance. Silk tore with a sharp, pathetic sound.
Violet shrieked, this time in outrage and pain, as Valeria’s nails dug deep into the flesh beneath the shredded silk, finding purchase on the curve of her small breast. Violet bucked, trying to throw her off, her wiry legs kicking. One intricately beaded flip-flop flew off, landing near Ingrid’s face, the beads clicking faintly against the canvas.
"Get off me, you mad sow!" Violet spat, writhing. Her free hand scrabbled at Valeria’s face, trying to hook a finger into one of the bloody gashes near her broken mouth.
Valeria just growled, tightening her grip, twisting the delicate skin under her nails. Violet arched her back, a cry escaping her as Valeria used her weight to drive her shoulders harder into the mat. Valeria’s other hand came up, fingers aimed at Violet’s throat.
Ingrid gasped, pushing herself up onto her elbows. Every muscle screamed. The cage pressed cold against her back. The world tilted, then steadied. Across the chaos, Brenda still stood frozen near the ropes, the oiled sandal dangling forgotten in her hand. Her face was pale, eyes wide, staring at the ruin she’d made of Valeria’s face and the violent storm it had unleashed. Shock had replaced her earlier fury.
"Brenda!" The name ripped from Ingrid’s raw throat, harsh and commanding despite the pain. "Do something!"
Brenda flinched, her gaze snapping from the grappling women to Ingrid. Confusion warred with the dawning horror on her face. Who was the enemy now? Valeria, her furious, broken ally? Violet, the treacherous vulture? Or Ingrid, the one she’d sworn to take down?
While Brenda hesitated, Violet made her play. With Valeria momentarily focused on throttling her, Violet bucked violently, throwing Valeria off balance just enough. Her free hand, instead of clawing at Valeria’s face, snaked out blindly across the canvas. Not towards Ingrid. Not towards Brenda. Towards the fallen flip-flop.
Her fingers closed around the wooden sole, slick with sweat. It wasn’t much, but it was hard. And heavy for its size. Violet stopped fighting the hands at her throat for a split second. She gathered what little leverage she had left, coiled her wiry frame, and brought the flip-flop down in a vicious, sideways arc.
It wasn't aimed at Valeria's head. It was aimed lower. Harder.
The wooden sole, studded with sharp beads, smashed into the side of Valeria’s already pulverized jaw, right where Brenda’s sandal had landed earlier.
Crack.
Not as loud as the sandal strike, but sharper. More focused. Valeria’s strangled cry cut off instantly. Her eyes rolled back, the fury vanishing into blank shock. Her grip on Violet’s throat and breast went slack. She slumped sideways, a dead weight collapsing onto the canvas, blood pooling fresh from the new, vicious split the flip-flop’s edge had opened below her ear.
Violet shoved the limp body off her, scrambling backwards like a crab, her torn kimono gaping open, revealing angry red welts where Valeria’s nails had gouged her. She clutched the makeshift weapon, knuckles white, her chest heaving. Her green eyes, wide and feral, darted from Ingrid, still struggling to rise, to Brenda, frozen in place, and finally to Valeria’s motionless form.
The harsh arena lights glinted off the beads on the flip-flop in Violet’s hand. Silence crashed down, thick and heavy, broken only by the ragged breathing of the three women still conscious and the distant, roaring buzz of the bloodthirsty crowd beyond the cage. Ingrid tasted the copper tang again. Her vision swam. She dug her fingers into the canvas, the exposed toes of her gladiator sandals scrabbling for purchase.
Violet’s gaze locked onto hers. A thin, predatory smile stretched across Violet’s weathered face. She raised the bloody flip-flop slightly, the beads dripping crimson onto the mat near Valeria’s head. Her voice, when it came, was a low rasp that cut through the silence like broken glass.
"Just us chickens now, Maiden."
Ingrid spat blood onto the canvas. It landed near Violet’s discarded flip-flop, the beads dark and sticky. Her ribs throbbed where Violet’s hip had cracked into them, each breath a jagged knife. "Chickens?" Ingrid rasped, forcing herself onto her knees, the studded straps of her gladiator sandals biting into her calves. "You fight like a cornered sewer rat." She braced one hand against the cold steel cage, the other curling into a fist. "Always the cheap shot, Violet."
Violet’s thin smile didn’t waver. Her green eyes flicked past Ingrid to Brenda, still hovering uselessly near the ropes. "Bruiser! You gonna just stand there looking constipated? Or you wanna help put this bitch down?" Brenda flinched, her knuckles white around the strap of her cheap rubber sandal. The oil on its sole gleamed sickly under the harsh lights.
Ingrid used the momentary distraction. She pushed off the cage, lunging forward, not with a punch, but aiming a vicious stomp at Violet’s exposed bare foot. Violet recoiled faster than a snake, jerking her foot back. The move saved her toes but threw her slightly off balance. She snarled, shaking the bloody flip-flop at Ingrid. "Try it again, Maiden. See what happens."
Brenda took a hesitant step forward, her cheap rubber sandals squeaking slightly on the canvas. "Violet... Val..." she stammered, looking at Valeria's motionless form. "She ain't moving."
"Focus, Baker!" Violet snapped, her eyes never leaving Ingrid. "She’s the payday." Violet shifted her weight subtly on her bare foot, the beaded flip-flop still clutched in her right hand. Her left hand, however, dropped to the wide, frayed obi belt cinching her torn purple kimono. With a practised, almost casual motion, her fingers dipped beneath the thick fabric folds near her hip.
A sharp, unmistakable riiip tore through the tense air. Not fabric. Adhesive. Violet jerked her hand free. Clutched between her fingers was a short strip of heavy-duty silver duct tape, its edges jagged where she’d torn it from a hidden roll strapped to her inner thigh. Her grin turned feral.
"Think this is just for grip?" Violet hissed, holding the tape strip aloft like a small, menacing flag. She took a step towards Ingrid, the flip-flop still raised in her other hand. "Gonna shut that pretty mouth for good."
Ingrid’s blood ran cold. That tape wasn’t for fixing boots. It was for suffocation. For sealing eyes. For binding wrists to the cage. Violet prowled closer, the tape strip dangling. Brenda watched, frozen, indecision warring on her face. The crowd’s roar was a distant ocean wave. Ingrid tensed every screaming muscle, ready for the final, dirty lunge. Move, damn you.
The silver tape glinted in Violet’s hand, cold promise in her predatory grin. Ingrid’s muscles coiled, screaming protest, every bruise from Violet’s opportunistic slam flaring white-hot. Move, damn you. The thought was pure instinct, survival stripped bare. Across the mat, Brenda’s breath hitched, her gaze darting between Violet’s menace and Valeria’s terrifying stillness.
Valeria spasmed.
It wasn't a conscious movement. It was violent, involuntary. Her back arched off the canvas like a bowstring suddenly released, tendons standing out in her bruised neck. A guttural, wet gasp tore from her ruined mouth, spraying flecks of blood and saliva onto the mat near her face. Her eyes snapped open, glazed and unfocused, yet blazing with a primal, mindless fury.
Her hands, clawed and trembling, shot out with shocking speed. Not towards Violet’s throat this time. Not towards Ingrid. They scrabbled blindly across the slick canvas, slick with sweat and Valeria’s own blood. One hand found purchase, fingers digging deep into the thick muscle of Violet’s bare calf, just above the intricate beading of her single remaining flip-flop. The other hand clamped like a vice around Violet’s exposed, bony ankle.
"Gah!" Violet’s triumphant sneer vanished, replaced by startled pain and panic. The strip of duct tape fluttered from her fingers, forgotten, as she instinctively tried to yank her leg free. "Let GO, you broken hag!" Valeria’s grip was iron, fueled by dying synapses and raw agony. Her broken jaw worked soundlessly, a grotesque mimicry of chewing, her eyes rolling wildly. She pulled, not with strategy, but with the terrifying, convulsive strength of a seizure, trying to drag Violet down onto the canvas with her.
The sudden shift shattered Violet’s balance. She teetered, the beaded flip-flop skidding slightly on the blood-slick surface. Her free hand flailed, grasping empty air. The torn purple silk kimono gaped wider, exposing the angry red welts Valeria’s nails had carved into her chest moments before. Ingrid saw it – the micro-second of utter vulnerability, Violet’s focus ripped away, her body twisting awkwardly to resist the anchor of Valeria’s death grip.
Now. Ingrid exploded forward. She didn’t waste breath on a war cry; the air hissed between her teeth as she drove power from her screaming legs, her exposed toes digging hard into the canvas inside the studded straps of her gladiator sandals. She ignored the fire in her scalp, the deep ache in her ribs from Violet’s hip strike. Her target wasn’t Violet’s face. It was the center of her instability – a driving, piston-like thrust of her knee aimed squarely at Violet’s exposed, vulnerable midriff as she fought to stay upright against Valeria’s convulsive pull. Brenda stood frozen near the ropes, the oiled sandal hanging limp, her mouth agape at the nightmarish tableau: Valeria’s ruined face, her hands locked on Violet like rigor mortis setting in early, Violet’s wide-eyed terror, and Ingrid, the Iron Maiden, a blur of black leather and murderous intent closing the distance. Violet’s green eyes, wide with dawning horror, locked onto Ingrid’s incoming knee a fraction too late.
Violet’s green eyes, wide with dawning horror, locked onto Ingrid’s incoming knee a fraction too late. Ingrid’s powerful leg drove forward, propelled by coiled fury and desperation, the studded strap of her gladiator sandal biting into her calf muscle. Impact. A sickening thud echoed, flesh meeting flesh with brutal force low in Violet’s abdomen. The air exploded from Violet’s lungs in a pained, ragged whoosh, her wiry frame folding like cheap paper.
"Uuuugh!" Violet choked, the predatory glee instantly replaced by agony. Valeria, sensing the shift even through her haze, instinctively tightened her death grip on Violet’s calf and ankle, anchoring her. Violet’s free hand, still clutching the bloody beaded flip-flop, swung wildly but impotently as her balance vanished completely. The flip-flop clattered away.
Ingrid didn’t let momentum fade. As Violet crumpled forward, gasping, her head snapping down towards Ingrid’s level, Ingrid moved with grim precision. Her right hand, slick with her own sweat and blood from her split lip, shot up past Violet’s flailing arms. Fingers, strong as steel cables from decades of training, clamped hard around Violet’s throat just below the jawline. Thumb digging into the windpipe, other fingers pressing into the carotid arteries on the side.
The grip was immediate, absolute. Violet’s choked gasps turned into desperate, wet gurgles. Her eyes bulged, the piercing green wide with sudden terror, all thoughts of tape or weapons obliterated by the primal need for air. She scrabbled weakly at Ingrid’s wrist with her free hand, her nails leaving thin red trails on the sweat-slicked skin, but Ingrid’s hold was iron. Violet’s torn kimono gaped open, revealing the livid scratches on her chest heaving futilely.
"Tape," Ingrid rasped, her voice raw and low, pushing Violet’s head back slightly against the pressure of her grip. She stared straight into the bulging, terrified eyes inches from her own. Her breath came in harsh pants, the taste of blood sharp on her tongue. "You talk too much." Violet’s mouth worked soundlessly, a fish out of water, her face purpling. Across the mat, Brenda finally moved, taking a jerky step forward, her oiled sandal squeaking. "Jesus, Ingrid... let her breathe!"
Valeria’s convulsive grip on Violet’s leg finally slackened, her own consciousness fading again, her ruined face lolling sideways onto the blood-stained canvas. The silver strip of duct tape Violet had dropped lay glinting near her limp hand. Ingrid tightened her fingers fractionally, feeling the frantic flutter of Violet’s pulse against her palm, the desperate, weakening struggle. The arena lights felt hotter, the crowd noise a relentless, buzzing pressure against her skull. Violet’s lips were turning blue.
The choked gurgle died in Violet’s throat, replaced by a terrifying silence. Her eyes rolled back, the frantic scrabbling at Ingrid’s wrist weakening to feeble twitches. The purple hue deepened across her weathered face. Ingrid felt the fragile flutter beneath her fingers slow, the desperate pulse fading against her palm. Brenda’s panicked shout – "Jesus, Ingrid!" – sounded muffled, distant beneath the roaring in Ingrid’s own ears and the relentless buzz of the crowd.
Then, beneath them, movement.
Valeria’s head snapped up from the canvas, her ruined face a mask of blood and swelling, one eye squeezed shut. Unconsciousness hadn't claimed her; agony and fury had forged a terrifying clarity. Her gaze, the single open eye blazing with pure, mindless hatred, locked onto Violet’s exposed calf, inches from her face. Violet’s wiry leg was taut, straining against Ingrid’s chokehold, the skin slick with sweat and Valeria’s own blood where her nails had dug in moments before.
Valeria didn’t hesitate. Didn’t scream. She lunged upward with the last dregs of her convulsive strength, her shattered jaw dropping impossibly wide despite the ruin. It wasn't a bite. It was an eruption.
Her teeth, what remained of them, crunched through skin and muscle with horrifying force, sinking deep into the meaty curve of Violet’s calf. Not a snap. A grinding, wet rip as flesh tore. Violet’s body, moments from unconsciousness, arched violently in Ingrid’s grip like a speared fish. A raw, animal shriek tore from Violet’s ruined throat, bypassing the chokehold entirely – a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that cut through every other noise in the arena.
Ingrid instinctively recoiled, her iron grip loosening in shock. Violet’s scream was visceral, primal. Valeria held on, her jaw working grotesquely, grinding deeper, her single open eye fixed on Violet’s contorted face with savage triumph. Blood, dark and thick, welled instantly around Valeria’s mouth, streaming down Violet’s leg onto the already stained canvas. Violet thrashed wildly, her free leg kicking uselessly, her hands clawing blindly at the air, at Ingrid, at the nightmare clamped onto her calf. "GET HER OFF! GET HER OFF ME!" The words were ragged, choked screams punctuated by sobs. Brenda stood frozen, her face ashen, the oiled sandal slipping from her numb fingers. Ingrid stared, momentarily paralyzed, at the raw, wet wound pulsing blood onto the mat beneath Violet’s thrashing leg, Valeria’s teeth still buried deep. The metallic tang of fresh blood flooded the air, thick and cloying. Violet’s screams dissolved into wet, choking gasps, her body shuddering with each grinding movement of Valeria’s jaw.
The wet, tearing sound stopped. Valeria’s jaw went slack, releasing Violet’s ravaged calf with a sickening slurp. She slumped back onto the canvas, utterly still, a broken doll leaking crimson onto the stained mat. Violet’s agonized scream choked off into ragged, wet sobs. Her leg was a ruin – deep puncture wounds wept freely, muscle glistening obscenely in the harsh light. Her body convulsed, trembling uncontrollably.
Ingrid recoiled, the sheer brutality momentarily freezing her. The coppery stench of fresh blood flooded her nostrils, thick and cloying. Violet’s green eyes, wide with shock and unbearable pain, snapped up. They weren't looking at her ruined leg. They locked onto Ingrid’s face, inches away.
Pure, feral survival instinct overrode agony. Violet’s hand, slick with her own blood and sweat, shot up faster than a striking adder. Not a fist. Fingers hooked like talons, nails crusted with grime and gore. She aimed straight for Ingrid’s eyes.
Ingrid flinched sideways, too slow. Violet’s thumb scraped painfully across her cheekbone, gouging skin. But the index and middle fingers found their mark. Hard, ragged nails scraped across the vulnerable surface of Ingrid’s left eye, digging deep into the corner.
White-hot agony exploded behind Ingrid’s eyelid. A hot, wet gush flooded her vision – blood, tears, something else. She gasped, a strangled sound ripped from her throat. Her hands flew instinctively to her face, knocking Violet’s clawing fingers away. Violet hissed, a sound of pure venom and pain, scrambling backwards on her elbows, dragging her mangled leg.
"Get...off!" Violet choked out, her voice raw and broken, clutching her bleeding calf with one hand while the other, the one that had clawed Ingrid’s eye, trembled violently. Ingrid stumbled back, blinking furiously. Her left eye burned like acid, vision swimming in a blurry haze of crimson and tears. She could feel warm liquid streaming down her cheek. Panic clawed its way up her throat, cold and sharp.
Brenda finally snapped out of her horrified trance. "Jesus H.Christ!" she bellowed, her voice cracking. She surged forward, her cheap rubber sandals squeaking on the bloody canvas. She didn't go for Ingrid or Violet. She lunged for Valeria’s motionless form. "Val! Val, talk to me!" Brenda rolled Valeria onto her back, recoiling at the pulped mess of her jaw, the vacant stare in her one open eye. "Shit. Shit! Medic! We need a goddamn medic in here!" Brenda screamed towards the cage door, her face pale beneath the sweat and fury. Her hands hovered uselessly over Valeria’s chest, afraid to touch the ruin.
Violet whimpered, curling in on herself near the ropes, pressing her torn kimono against the bite wounds on her calf. Blood seeped steadily through the purple silk. Her breath hitched in shallow, pained gasps. Her green eyes, filled with tears of agony and fury, flickered between Brenda kneeling over Valeria and Ingrid, who stood swaying slightly, one hand clamped over her bleeding left eye. Ingrid lowered her hand slightly, blinking rapidly. The world through her left eye was a distorted smear of light and dark red shapes. Her right eye stung from sweat and blood spray, but showed Brenda’s panicked face, Valeria’s terrifying stillness, Violet’s crumpled form leaking onto the mat. The silver strip of duct tape lay forgotten near Violet’s hip.
The cage door clanged open. Two burly handlers in black shirts rushed in, their faces grim. One knelt beside Valeria, checking for a pulse. The other moved towards Violet. "Easy, Vi," he muttered, reaching for her leg. Violet snarled weakly, trying to pull away. "Don't touch it!"
Ingrid stood rooted, breathing hard. The pain in her eye was a throbbing, insistent drumbeat. Blood trickled warmly down her cheek, dripping onto the collar of her black leather corset. She watched the handlers work. Valeria was lifted onto a stretcher, utterly limp. Violet was being helped to sit, her face contorted as they examined the deep bite marks. Brenda hovered nearby, wringing her hands, her earlier fury replaced by hollow-eyed shock. "Is she...?" Brenda started, her voice small.
The handler checking Valeria shook his head grimly. "Breathing. Barely." He signaled urgently towards the door. Violet cursed viciously as the other handler applied pressure to her calf, her knuckles white where she gripped the ropes. Her gaze, sharp despite the pain, found Ingrid again. Hatred burned in her green eyes, hotter than the agony twisting her features. She spat a glob of blood and saliva onto the mat near Ingrid’s exposed toes.
"Still... standing, Maiden?" Violet rasped, her voice tight. She winced as the handler tightened the pressure bandage. "Lucky... shot." She gestured weakly with her chin towards Ingrid’s bleeding eye. "Looks... messy."
Ingrid wiped at the blood streaming from her brow ridge with the back of her wrist. It smeared crimson across her pale skin. The throbbing behind her eye socket intensified. She met Violet’s hate-filled stare with her one clear, steely blue eye. Her voice, when it came, was low, rough, but devoid of panic. "Messier than your leg, Venom?" She took a deliberate step forward, ignoring the handler trying to guide Violet out. Her gladiator sandal landed squarely on the discarded strip of silver duct tape, pressing it flat onto the blood-soaked canvas. "Cheap tricks... and cheap tape." Violet’s lips peeled back from her teeth in a silent snarl, but the handler pulled her firmly towards the exit. Brenda watched them go, then looked back at Ingrid, her expression unreadable. The arena lights felt suddenly colder. Ingrid pressed her palm harder against her damaged eye, the sticky warmth a constant reminder. The fight wasn't over. Not even close.