The Final Cage

[Rheawien]

Pavel Enders wasn’t a personal friend of Mister Kinnity, but that little detail faded in comparison to the laden coffers that jangled with gold pieces. There was more then enough in them to make an anonymous donation to the battle organizer and his chintzy theatre organization. As a direct consequence, Pavel Enders – also known to Rheawien as Pavel the Fucking Shylock – got a complimentary place in the first row of the bleachers, almost close enough to smell the dirt of the cage floor. It made the sallow-faced man smile. If he was lucky and his insurance played it as arranged, by the end of the day he would taste Rhea’s sprouting blood and see her face cringing in deathly pain. Next to him, the fat, dumb-faced grotesque was holding popcorn in one hand, the other protruding the index finger and poking at the slimy contents of his oversized nose.

The crowd was already warming up, cheering for the combatants, but far from the elated roar that was bound to start the very second the final fight officially started. Juxtaposed to the mass, the pair once again looked insipid, business-like, like a pair or referees that weren’t allowed to have feelings about the whole matter. But there were emotions boiling in their eyes. For the muscle-bound brute, it was excitement that was hidden, mostly from the eyes of his boss. But in Pavel’s eyes there was ominous anger, a tension of expectance that made his fingers tap ceaselessly on the wood of the bench.

“So, this is a done deal, boss?” the fat thing asked, putting in a mouthful of popcorn into his mouth with the hand that just prospected for whatnot in his nose. A wrinkly hand knocked him hard enough to spill half of his popcorns.

“Idiot. How many times do I have to explain it?”

“Sorry, boss. It’s just that this... this... elf man doesn’t seem too impressive to me.”

Suddenly, one of the combatants saluted the audience and the crazed people responded heartily. They knew her from the last round. Four she killed before dying herself and four meant gallons of blood and a plethora of agony and death. And that was what they paid for.

“Shut up. She’s here.”

***

The crowd loved her. Her little escapade in the first round gained both sympathy and adoration amidst the fans and countless time she was approached while resting in the infirmary by nitwits that wanted her autograph. She mostly scolded them away, threatening to send them away with a scar as a memorabilia, but deep down inside, she was flattered by the attention. She was their executioner, their provider, their dealer of blood and guts and tears, and they returned the favor with affection inspired by bloodlust. So now, when Rheawien stepped into the cage and lifted her katana towards the surrounding mass, she got the largest confirmation of the worthiness of her efforts.

Strangely, during her recuperation times, she wasn’t visited by one person that she knew would pay her a visit, one person that she knew wouldn’t be glad to see her alive and passing through the first round. The loanshark was nowhere to be seen, despite the dire threats that were made prior to the first round. A part of her hoped that the man let the whole matter drop, but that optimistic part of her was one hundred percent foolish. Men such as Pavel Enders didn’t let things slide. He had something brewing and she knew she would have to be watchful in the final battle for some kind of treachery.

Still, instead of keeping a low profile and measuring the other foes with studious eyes, the roar of the mass was like a wind beneath her wings, ruffling up her feathers and lifting her high enough to lose sight of the logic and reason. Rhea knew that the love of the crowd was a frivolous thing, a scale that tipped this way and that at the slightest misstep. They loved her now. Would they still feel the same way if she died within the first minute? Of course not. That’s the way the fame worked. When you got on top, all you really could do was stay there as long as humanly possible and roll down when the bigger, meaner fish took over.

Rheawien spun her blade and bowed courteously.

“Let the fight for the top of the hill begin.”