Two Wolves - 5/19

[xanthefic]

Tony sits with his back pressed against the bars of the holding pen, watching the other fighters. Some of them are pacing around anxiously, chewing on their fingers. Others are sitting on the floor of the pen like him, their relaxed poses seriously undermined by the lines of tension he can see in their taut muscles.

It’s a beautiful warm night, and there’s a crescent moon overhead. He can see the back of the bleachers in the distance and hear the distant shouts and jeers coming from the direction of the pit, but out here it’s almost peaceful.

There are several holding pens dotted around the barren patch of land, each of them located near a truck, and each with its own set of armed guards. It seems as if each owner gets his own pen. Although they’re clearly temporary structures, the pens were already there when the truck pulled up a little while ago. The fighters were all shoved into the wooden pens still wearing their chains – all of them except Mac, who was separated out and ushered in the direction of the pit.

There’s a big roar from the direction of the pit, and then the sounds of people moving around, and some of the crowd emerge to use the temporary toilets and buy food from a couple of vendors. How the hell did the vendors get this gig? Tony presumes Walid has laid on the amenities like everything else; this is a business for him as much as a pleasure.

There’s a sense of exhilaration in the air, and a little while later Mac is escorted back across the field. There’s blood running down his face and bite marks along one brawny forearm, but he looks exuberant.

“Hey, fuckers! I told you I’d have a good night!” he jeers through the bars of the holding pen.

Nobody responds, but Tony can see them all deflate slightly at this news.

“Hoping he’d lose, huh?” he asks the guy sitting next to him as Mac is led away.

“What do you think? If he’d lost, he’d have gone to a different stable, and we wouldn’t have to put up with the bastard anymore,” the man replies.

So that’s how it works. Tony is gradually piecing this jigsaw together. “You could lose – to get away from him?” Tony suggests.

The man gives him an incredulous look. “Lose on purpose? No way. Too risky.”

Tony watches as Mac is escorted back to the truck. “Do you only have to fight once?” he asks.

The man nods. “Yeah, once each Fight Night. If you win, you stay with your current owner. If you lose, you go to the stable of the fighter who beat you. You really are a newbie, aren’t you?”

At that moment the gate of the holding pen is opened, and a guard enters. He glances around and then jerks his head in Tony’s direction. Tony’s stomach does a sudden queasy lurch.

“You. Get your ass over here.”

Tony gets up slowly, and the man he was just talking to touches his arm briefly. “Good luck. You should go all out to win. It’s better that way – trust me.”

Tony doesn’t have much time to think about that because the guard grabs his shoulder and propels him out of the holding pen and towards the arena.

It smells like a dog racing track, or a music gig, or any of those places where people get together and eat and watch a show. He looks around, trying to keep his agent head on and scope out any chance to put his plan into action. First he needs to find Gibbs though; he can’t put any escape plan into action until then. His stomach does another anxious flip. Gibbs is probably here somewhere, close by. If so, it’s the nearest Tony’s been to him in five months, and the sense of anticipation is acute.

He’s taken up onto the bleachers, which wasn’t where he saw Mac being taken earlier, so that confuses him. He doesn’t like being naked amongst all these clothed people, but they barely spare him a glance. He’s walked up to what is clearly the best seat in the house – a boxed off area containing a big, padded seat, where Walid is sitting like a king on his throne. Tony is shoved onto the bench immediately to the left of Walid.

“Hey, Walid. Nice to see you again. So, this is cool. Like Christians versus lions with you as the Roman emperor,” Tony says with a grin. “You must love having all this power.”

Walid doesn’t look remotely riled by that comment. He just inclines his head towards Tony. “I do. And you’re most welcome, Tony. I’m delighted to see that you haven’t lost your…unique sense of humour. Although, I do wonder if that might change before the evening is over.”

Walid isn’t wearing his sunglasses and his eyes have a gleam of anticipation. Tony has an excellent view of the pit down below, lit by massive floodlights. He gives a little whistle.

“Wow, this whole thing must cost you a hell of a lot of money to stage, Walid.”

“I have money.” Walid shrugs. Then he grins. “It also makes me money. It’s become quite successful, Tony. I get a cut from all the gambling, and the owners have to pay me in order to put their fighters in the pit. Good fighters are also often bought and sold for high sums, and I get a cut of that too. It’s big business.”

“Aw! And your family thought you wouldn’t amount to anything. How wrong they were!” Tony glances sideways to see if that barb hit home, and he sees Walid stiffening so he counts it as a success.

Walid turns towards him, a macabre little smile on his face. “You are in fine form this evening, Tony. I’m glad. That will make the events I have planned all the more pleasing.”

That sounds ominous. Tony watches as fresh sawdust is strewn in the pit. The crowd begin to return to their seats, clutching drinks and hotdogs, and the air of anticipation starts to build.

“Next up, we have the only other unbeaten fighter in the tournament this season!” the commentator announces excitably, and a little murmur goes around the crowd. “He’s mean, he’s hungry, and he never, ever smiles…he’s the wolfman!”

The crowd erupts in a fit of wild cheering, and Tony watches as the guards open the gate to a holding pen, and a man prowls out into the pit. He’s tall and well built, with a sleekly muscled body, and like Tony and all the other fighters he’s encountered, he’s naked. His hair has been shorn to no more than a half an inch in length all over, and his body is glistening under the glare of the lights.

“Is he covered in oil?” Tony turns to Walid to find the man watching him intently.

“Yes. They are all oiled – it makes them slippery. Harder to catch.”

“What are the rules?” Tony asks, leaning forward, catching the sense of excitement in the crowd and feeling it too, despite himself.

“There are no rules.” Walid smiles. “They fight until one of them has clearly won. Sometimes that is very quick – other times, it takes much longer. Wolfman usually doesn’t need very long. He is one of the best fighters we have.”

He smiles at Tony again and nods back at the pit where another fighter has been released from his pen.

Tony decides he wouldn’t like to fight the wolfman. He suits his name. There’s a predatory kind of grace about the way he moves and a look of total concentration on his face. It reminds him of Gibbs when he’s chasing a lead on a case…Gibbs. The realization kicks in, and he looks up to find Walid still smiling at him.

“Yes, Tony?”

“That’s Gibbs. Wolfman is Gibbs!” Tony looks back down on the pit in shock. He hadn’t recognized him. He’s worked with the man for ten years, lusted after him and loved him for pretty much the same amount of time, and he didn’t recognize him.

Maybe it’s the extremely short hair, or the muscles that are much more evident now than they were five months ago, and it’s not as if Gibbs was lacking in that department even back then. But no, it’s not either of those things. It’s Gibbs himself. He looks like a different person. There is no sense of the man Tony once knew in that predator below in the pit.

Relief floods in all the same, combined with a nagging sense of anxiety. At least he was right, and Gibbs is alive…but how much of *his* Gibbs is still left in that stranger down there?

“Problem, Tony?” Walid asks silkily.

“Yes. What the hell have you done to him?”

“We have done nothing to him. We have simply teased out his potential and given him a way of best expressing the hungry wolf he is inside. He is aptly named, yes?”

Tony watches as Gibbs behaves just like a hungry wolf. There’s an expression of cold, calculating anger in his eyes as he moves towards his prey. The other man is clearly terrified and makes a sudden rash move, throwing himself at Gibbs, fists flailing. It’s a tactical error, and Gibbs punishes it ruthlessly and efficiently, getting in several low punches that make Tony wince before skipping out of reach of his opponent’s fists.

“He really is very good,” Walid whispers in Tony’s ear. “You see, we cannot make a fighter, Tony; fighters are born. We simply liberated him from his civilized trappings and showed him what he really is. And Gibbs is an excellent fighter, as you can see. Only my own fighter, Mac, is better. I’m annoyed with myself that I didn’t keep Gibbs when I first had him captured. I was misled by his age and his weak knee; I should have looked into his eyes and seen the wolf within.”

Tony feels a shiver running up his spine, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He fears Walid might be right because the Gibbs he’s looking at right now is coolly ruthless as he throws punch after punch, exposing his opponent’s weaknesses with brutal precision before bringing the man to his knees with a sneaky swipe at his ankles, sweeping his feet out from under him.

Gibbs’s movements are smooth and controlled, but Tony can see a tidal wave of rage surging just beneath the surface as he leaps on his prey and punches away at his jaw repeatedly and with deadly accuracy.

The crowd scent blood and rise to their feet, cheering as Gibbs’s opponent goes limp and stops fighting. Gibbs, however, doesn’t stop punching. Tony winces and wants to look away as Gibbs carries on, his fists breaking the man’s nose and causing blood to flow freely into the sawdust.

Finally – after what feels like hours – the referee steps in and stops the fight, and Gibbs moves back, away from his prey. Tony is initially relieved it’s all over, but then he realizes, from the reaction of the crowd and the hush that descends, that it isn’t.

Walid is watching him again, an indulgent smile playing on his cruel mouth. “Watch,” he instructs. “You’ll enjoy this next bit, Tony.”

Tony is transfixed as Gibbs returns to his victim, that predatory look still on his face. This isn’t over for Gibbs yet; there’s something more he wants to do.

“Wolf-man! Wolf-man! Wolf-man!” the crowd chants, and the atmosphere in the arena has turned electric.

A breeze rustles though Tony’s hair, chilling his naked body to the bone as Gibbs grabs the man, pulls him onto his haunches…and then begins fucking him with cruel efficiency.

“Shit…that’s…that’s just…horrific.” Tony turns away, unable to watch. It’s not so much the act, as watching Gibbs perform it. To be fair, he can’t see any actual relish on Gibbs’s part, but he can see a certain angry satisfaction. He might not like it, but he doesn’t hate it, either. Just what have these bastards done to him?

“I know Gibbs,” Tony says urgently to Walid. “And he might be a bastard – hell, he’ll admit to that himself – but he’s no rapist.”

“Really?” Walid raises a polite eyebrow.

“So what have you done to him? What have you threatened him with, Walid? What’s the penalty for refusal?”

Walid shrugs. “It’s a good question, Tony. But did it ever occur to you that he might not need any incentive to do this? Look at him – does he look like a man being coerced?”

Tony can’t look though. The sounds from the pit are sickening enough. He doesn’t want to see what Gibbs is doing right now.

“I said, look at him!” Walid roars, and, reluctantly, Tony turns his head back to look at the arena.

Tony can see a catalogue of marks on Gibbs’s sleek, lean body. There is clear evidence of scarring on his back, so he’s obviously been whipped at some point, but is it possible to whip a man into committing rape?

Tony closes his eyes and listens as the crowd’s cheering comes to a triumphant conclusion, and then they’re stamping their feet and applauding. When he opens his eyes again, he sees Gibbs stalking out of the pit without sparing the audience a second glance. The crowd appears to love him for his disdain. They chant his name over and over again, laughing at his refusal to engage with them, enjoying the fact that he’s just as ruthless with them as he was with his victim.

“That is your mentor, Tony,” Walid murmurs to him, in that same silky tone of voice. “That is the man you worshipped, admired, and risked your life to save. Behold your idol, Tony. Or should that be ‘fallen idol’, hmm?”

~*~

Gibbs checks himself over as the adrenaline high of his fight gradually fades. Sometimes he sustains injuries he wasn’t even aware of at the time, in the heat of the fight. This one was tough; his opponents have been getting progressively tougher for the past couple of months, as the competition intensifies in the build up to this grand finale that Scott is so excited about.

He’s got a bruised jaw and one of his ribs is tender, but apart from that he’s fine. A guard chains him up again, but instead of being taken back to the truck as usual after a fight, he’s returned to Scott’s holding pen instead.

“What’s going on?” Hurrell asks he sits down, his chest still heaving from the fight. “Why did they bring you back here?”

“No idea.” Gibbs shrugs. He notices blood running down his shin that he didn’t see before, but it’s just a graze.

“I don’t like it,” Steve says anxiously. “Is something different happening tonight?” He begins gnawing on his fingernails. They’re bitten down to the quick as it is; the skin around them is hanging off in angry red strips, but compared to the kind of injuries sustained in the pit it’s nothing.

“Like I said, I have no idea,” Gibbs growls. He’s unsettled by the change himself, but he can’t allow it to get to him.

“Why did Scott take you out of the pen earlier?” Hurrell asks, gazing at Gibbs curiously.

“He wanted to show me a fighter he thinks I’ll meet in the last fight of the season – if I keep winning.”

“You got to watch the fights from the bleachers?” Steve asks excitedly. He’s so on edge that he’s practically bouncing off the holding pen walls, and Gibbs wonders if Tanner has got his dosage right.

He watches as Hurrell puts a calming hand on Steve’s shoulder, and Steve relaxes into the touch, visibly reassured.

“What’s it like?” Steve asks. “What’s it like to watch the fighting?”

“Different.” Gibbs shrugs.

“What did Scott say to you?” Hurrell is giving him another one of those thoughtful looks.

Gibbs shrugs again. “The usual shit.”

“He’s trying to psych you up, so you’ll win for him. He’s playing you,” Hurrell says.

“I know.”

“I heard him talking to you back at the stable. I heard what he was offering you during the down season.”

Somehow, everything Hurrell says to him sounds like an accusation, and Gibbs turns to glare at him

“Do you ever wonder what they’ll do with the rest of us? The ones who don’t win all the time?” Hurrell asks quietly. “Will they want to waste the money on feeding and guarding us all through the down season?”

“They’ll still need fighters for the new season,” Gibbs replies.

“They can steal fighters!”

“But it’s risky.”

Hurrell nods, but Gibbs can understand the fear. He has no idea whether Scott is trying to play him with all his promises about the down season, and he has no idea what will happen to the less able fighters, either. Would Scott kill them? Does the man have the stones for that? He doubts that’s what happens – even the cheapest fighters cost a few thousand dollars, and that makes them a commodity. You don’t kill your commodity.

Hurrell is still giving him a needling little look. “Do you buy into what Scott’s telling you?” he asks bluntly. “Do you like the idea of being the ultimate winner, Gibbs? ‘Cause sometimes I look at you, and I think you’re loving all this, and that’s why you’re not trying to escape.”

Gibbs is about to growl back an angry retort when a huge roar goes up from the pit, and Steve jumps nervously. He’s like the proverbial cat on a hot tin roof, wound up at the prospect of his fight.

“Ssh,” Hurrell says. “You need a distraction. Let me tell you a story.”

“A story?” Steve looks pathetically desperate to take any distraction going. Gibbs sighs and leans back against the bars of the holding pen. He has a feeling that Hurrell often tells Steve stories during the long nights alone in their stall, when they’re not fucking. Steve’s a young, weak man, and Hurrell seems to have appointed himself as his protector.

“Yeah – hearing all the cries for ‘Wolfman’ reminded me of this story someone once told me.”

Gibbs opens his eyes a fraction and fixes Hurrell with a hard look.

“This story is called ‘The Two Wolves’,” Hurrell says, totally ignoring him.

“Wolves…cool! Wolves. I like wolves,” Steve says eagerly. He chews down hard on his thumb and the blood seeps out from around the fingernail.

Hurrell strokes the back of his head gently with his hand, and Gibbs fights down a memory of giving Tony an ‘attaboy’ many years ago. Tony’s hair was soft under his hand, and the memory is so vivid it hurts.

“So, a Cherokee elder was teaching his grandchildren about life,” Hurrell begins. “He said to them, ‘A fight is going on inside me, and it’s a terrible fight between two wolves. One wolf is dark, and it represents fear, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, hatefulness, lies – and anger.’” Hurrell glances at Gibbs who gives him a stony look in return.

“‘The other wolf is full of light, and it stands for joy, peace, truth, hope, humbleness, kindness, friendship, generosity, faith – and love.’”

Gibbs leans his head back on the bars of the pen. He knows this story. His father told it to him once, many years ago, after he got into a fight at school.

“‘This same fight is going on inside of you, and inside every other person too,’” Hurrell continues. “‘Those same two wolves are fighting inside each of us, all the time.’ The children thought about it for a little while. Then one child asked his grandfather, ‘Which wolf will win?’ And the Cherokee elder replied…”

“The one you feed,” Gibbs finishes for him with a growl.

He and Hurrell stare at each other for a long moment, and Steve clearly senses the tension within the pen because he starts chattering away.

“Wow, that’s cool! Two wolves…I love that story. I have to remember it so when I get out of here I can tell my little girl…she’s three years old, and she loves stories…” He pauses, looking suddenly broken.

Hurrell wraps his hand around Steve’s neck and pulls his head down, gently caressing his back with his other hand. Gibbs closes his eyes, shutting out thoughts of Kelly. The anger rises in his belly again, and he almost wishes he was back in the pit so he could pound out his fury on someone – anyone.

They are silent for a long time, listening as the fight in the pit comes to an end. Then one of Scott’s men comes to the holding pen.

“You.” He points at Steve. “Your turn.”

“Can’t I go first?” Hurrell asks, but they all know the answer to that. They are matched against a specific opponent, depending on the number of fights they’ve fought, and how many they’ve won.

“It’s okay. My turn. Better to get it over with, huh? See you in the truck later!” Steve says brightly, getting to his feet.

He hops out of the pen, his entire body shaking with nerves and anticipation.

Gibbs rubs a hand over the stubble on his head. Why has he been brought back to the holding pen instead of being put back in the truck? And what did Scott offer to Walid in order to get him that pit-side seat earlier?

Something bad is going to happen tonight. He can feel it in his gut.

~*~

“So the raping thing – whose idea was that?” Tony asks, as the third bout he’s witnessed comes to an end, and the victor rampages around the pit, screaming in glee at the audience.

“Raping? I prefer to view it as the just prize for a victory hard won. This is a gladiatorial contest, Tony,” Walid replies. “There should be some penalty for losing, shouldn’t there?”

“You mean beyond a broken nose, concussion, and possible brain damage?” Tony raises an eyebrow.

“See, to do this properly, the loser should really forfeit his life.” Walid gives a regretful sigh. “But fighters are expensive, and that’s wasteful. All the same, my audience wants some kind of climax to the event, and for the loser to experience some kind of forfeiture. Also, the winner should get the chance to exert his dominance over the loser, don’t you agree? It makes sense.”

“It only makes sense if you’re kind of nuts,” Tony replies with a shrug.

Walid smiles. “My sport of choice simply happens to be more honest than most,” he says. “Don’t tell me that when you watch a boxing match you don’t long for someone to get hurt – really hurt. We enjoy it because it is primal. I am simply removing all the modern day frippery that has made the boxing world so safe and sterile. I am giving the audience what it really craves; no gloves, no safety mechanisms, no pampered little prima donna performers with their big pay checks.”

“You’re kidnapping people and forcing them to fight at gunpoint,” Tony points out.

Walid laughs. “You say that as if mankind does not have a history of such contests. I prefer to think of it as simply returning us to an earlier, more honest age.”

“You’re talking about ancient Rome? Gladiators?”

“Of course. They were mostly slaves; men defeated in battle, taken from their homelands, and made to fight in front of crowds. This is the same thing.” Walid shrugs. “It is brutal, yes, but there is a beauty to its brutality and a sense of nobility.”

“I guess I’m not seeing either the beauty or the nobility then.”

“Then look harder.” Walid sits back in his throne, a dark, intense look in his eyes. “I mean it.” He glances at Tony. “You should enjoy this next one, Tony.”

~*~

They hear the fight in the pit coming to an end, and Gibbs sits up. Steve will have been in the pit-side holding pen waiting his turn while that fight finished, so his will be next. Gibbs hopes the skinny young man can hold it together to at least avoid being injured too badly. Maybe he can even win. He won his fight the previous week, so it’s possible. Gibbs suspects it’ll make Hurrell happy if Steve wins; he seems to have built up a rapport with the kid and will no doubt be upset if Steve ends up going to another stable later this evening, instead of back to Scott’s with them.

The guard returns to the holding pen with both Scott and Tanner, and Gibbs gets to his feet, that bad feeling in his gut intensifying.

“Leroy – I’m sorry, we must prevail upon your unique skills again,” Scott says.

“I already fought this evening.”

“I know, and usually I wouldn’t agree to a second fight. It’s not fair on you. But, like I said, Walid asked for a favour, and this is it.” Scott gives him a benign smile. “For what it’s worth, I don’t believe you’ll have much trouble with this particular opponent.”

Gibbs stands his ground, staring at the man.

“Ah, maybe you’re worried about…” Scott points down at his groin with a conspiratorial wink. “A man your age…is twice going to be difficult for you? I did ask for a little rest period for you, to give you time to recover. And Tanner has more drugs for you.”

He nods, and Tanner comes towards him, carrying a needle.

Gibbs knows from experience that refusing the drugs isn’t a good idea. They’ll just hold him down and inject him anyway. No matter how much he glares and protests, he has no bargaining chips here.

His muscles are taut with anger at the lack of control he has over what they’re doing to his body, but he submits to Tanner’s injection and is then prodded out of the holding pen by the guard. Scott puts a hand on his shoulder and walks him back towards the pit.

“This one’s a newbie, so he won’t be a challenge for you. You’ll probably have him down the minute his hood is removed.” He squeezes Gibbs’s shoulder firmly. “Just remember what’s at stake, Leroy, and how much you love winning.”

It’s been a long time since Gibbs last faced a newbie in the pit, and he feels a sense of revulsion. It’s always worse somehow because they don’t know what to do, or what to expect. He can still remember his own sense of disorientation that first time. He’d been hooded, as all newbies are, and he had no idea what awaited him.

His first glimpse of the pit had been when the hood was removed, and then an opponent was bearing down on him and before he knew it he was fighting for his life in front of a baying crowd. His old Marine instincts had kicked in and seen him through, but he can still remember how terrifying the entire event had been.

“Why the hell do you hood the newbies anyway?” he asks Scott.

Scott shrugs and spreads his arms wide. “For the drama, my dear Leroy. To see them blinking and blundering around down there, like helpless little new-borns, and for the joy of watching them either sink or swim.”

“I always thought I was a bastard, but you’re in a whole different league.”

“Oh, you are a bastard, Leroy. Now go out there and show us all just how much of a bastard you can be!”

The back gate of the pit-side holding pen is opened, and Gibbs is shoved into it by one of the guards. Scott waves at him and then disappears, presumably to return to his seat.

Steve is standing at the front of the pen, waiting for his fight to begin. His fingers are bitten down to bloody stubs, and he’s clearly trying to psych himself up and get into the right headspace for what lies ahead.

“Just focus. Don’t let your opponent get into your head,” Gibbs advises him. “Stay calm – and Steve?”

“Yeah?” Steve looks at him, his eyes dark, his pupils dilated from the drugs.

“Remember to breathe.”

Steve grins at him and holds up both thumbs. Then the front gate of the pen is opened, and the guard prods Steve out into the arena.

Gibbs watches him go, taking up position at the front of the pen to oil up again and watch the fight. This is the first time he’s ever been made to fight twice in one night, and he feels angry at the change to his routine. He got himself all psyched up to fight earlier and thought that was behind him for another week, only to find that he has to go out there and do it all over again.

He can’t spare any sympathy for Steve, or for the newbie he’s going out to fight shortly, or for anyone else. If he’s to go out there and win then he has to block out everything and everyone and concentrate. He’s at a disadvantage; he’s already fought one tough bout tonight, and he’s bruised and tired, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to lose to a newbie.

He has to find that anger from earlier and reconnect with the hunger to win. Hurrell and all his moralizing can go to hell; he’s going to need the dark wolf tonight, so that’s the one he’s damn well going to feed.

~*~

Tony isn’t sure why Walid is so interested in him watching this fight. It seems like a hopeless mismatch to him. There’s a skinny, lanky kid, probably in his early twenties, whose moves are all over the place, pitched against one of Walid’s men who he remembers from the drive over here in the truck. It’s the guy who told him to shut up repeatedly; Spencer, someone called him.

Spencer is a thickset guy with jet black hair. He moves with a kind of feline grace, and it’s clear from the outset that the skinny kid doesn’t stand a chance against him.

“At least the other fights were more equal – height, weight, skill,” Tony points out to Walid. “This one’s a no-brainer.”

“Is that so?” Walid’s long, elegant fingers stroke a ring on his right hand. “Three fights in, and you’re already an expert, are you, Tony?”

Tony rolls his eyes and settles back to watch as Spencer makes short work of the skinny kid. It doesn’t take long before the kid is lying on his back in the sawdust, screaming his head off, blood pouring from his nose.

“Like I said,” Tony mutters, looking away. He hates the next part, the fucking part. It makes him feel sick.

Walid leans forward in his chair, an intense look in his eyes, and Tony looks back, curious.

The crowd is standing up and jeering and down in the pit something unexpected seems to be happening. Tony cranes his neck to get a better view.

Spencer is standing back, away from the man he just defeated, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Do we have a refusal to fuck?” the commentator yells excitedly. “It looks like we do!”

The crowd goes wild, yelling out something Tony can’t decipher.

“It looks as if our esteemed patron, Prince Walid, will have the deciding voice in this round!” the commentator declares.

The crowd erupts into a long bout of yelling and caterwauling that seems to go on for ages. Walid sits on his throne, craning his head and cupping his ear theatrically as if he’s trying to hear what they’re saying.

Then Walid stands up, and the crowd goes silent. Down in the pit, Spencer is looking up at Walid with an expression of stubborn desperation in his eyes. The skinny kid starts to shake and sob, looking terrified.

Walid moves forward, where everyone can see him, and Tony can see that he’s soaking this up. Walid is loving every second of it, and Tony is reminded again of the gladiatorial contests of Ancient Rome, where someone’s life rested on whether the emperor turned his thumb up or down. In this particular arena, Walid is the emperor; this is his game, and it’s played by his rules.

Down in the pit, the referee has a gun in his hand and waits for the decision.

“So, Prince Walid – what’s it to be? Which of these fighters pays with his life?” the commentator asks gleefully.

You could hear a pin drop as Walid ponders his decision.

Tony gets to his feet, his throat dry. “Walid…you can’t be serious,” he says urgently, moving forward. A guard intercepts him, grabs him, and throws him back down on the bench. “Walid!” Tony yells.

Walid looks down on the pit, a smile on his face. He flings out his arm dramatically in the direction of the skinny kid, and the referee strides towards him, gun drawn.

“No!” the kid screams. “Please, no…no, no!”

There is no pause, no hesitation, and no mercy. The referee puts his gun to the kid’s head, pulls the trigger, and there is an explosion of blood all over the sawdust.

Tony gazes down on the pit in horrified silence.

“Well, you did ask what happens if the victor refuses to complete the fight in the appropriate way.” Walid smirks at him.

“Shit…did you…I can’t believe this…you just killed him,” Tony whispers in disbelief.

Walid shrugs. “That’s the game, Tony. That’s how it’s played.”

~*~

Gibbs stands in the holding pen, watching angrily as Steve’s lifeless body drops to the floor a few feet away, blood pouring out of the wound in his head.

He hears a strangled sob behind him and turns to see that Hurrell has just been shoved into the pen to wait for his fight.

“Steve?” Hurrell yells, all the blood draining from his face as he sees the tail end of what just happened. “Steve?” He presses himself against the bars at the front of the pen as a net is thrown over the corpse and it’s dragged through the sawdust, out of the pit. It’ll be thrown in an incinerator, and the ashes and bones buried somewhere nobody will find them; Gibbs has heard the guards talking about what happens to the bodies.

Hurrell looks broken, and Gibbs grabs his arm and squeezes tight to keep the man upright.

“He had a girlfriend…and a little kid…shit…he was just a kid himself,” Hurrell tells him. “He was a person…he was real… and they just snuffed him out like he was nothing. The fucking bastards.”

There is nothing Gibbs can say to make this any better. All he can do is try and prevent there being two tragedies tonight instead of one. His own fight is next, and then Hurrell will be forced out there into the pit after him. The man has to get his head on straight if he’s to stand any chance of winning after this.

“Find your own dark wolf, Hurrell,” he says urgently, shaking him hard. “Find it, use it, and win, because that’s the only way to survive.”

Hurrell stares at him from blank eyes. “I can’t fight…I can’t fight after that…”

“Yes, you damn well can!” Gibbs roars. “It’s a war, Hurrell, and you’re a Marine. You’ll do what I do – you’ll go out there and fight, and win, and fuck, and that way we both get to stay alive tonight.”

He’s so angry that he wants to get out there and fight right now. He wants to take out all his anger, rage, and pain on his next opponent in the pit, to slam his fist into an anonymous face and take his revenge for Steve’s senseless death.

~*~

Tony stares down at the pit as the dead body is pulled through the sawdust, trailing blood in its wake. The mood in the arena is ugly, shock and bloodlust warring with each other, making the crowd jittery. They loved what just happened though; Tony is sure about that. It might have been shocking, but they loved the thrill and excitement of watching someone being executed in front of them.

He looks up to find Walid staring at him thoughtfully. “So, Tony, I think you understand us a little better now, no?” Walid asks.

Tony has a sudden, bleak flash of understanding as to why Gibbs is the way he is, and how the man he once knew has turned into the hungry predator he saw in the pit this evening. It’s only a flash though. He can’t truly comprehend just how fucked up Gibbs must be after enduring five months of this.

“I saw the look Spencer gave you,” Tony says slowly. “He was very hyped up in the truck earlier; they all were, but he was particularly on edge. I think…” The truth dawns on him with sickening clarity. “I think you arranged this, Walid, as an object lesson for me. Spencer was supposed to refuse, wasn’t he? That’s why he was looking at you like that. You promised him you’d choose the other fighter, not him, to take the fall for his refusal.”

Walid gives a broad smile. “Ah, Tony, so you are not quite the idiot you like to appear!” He claps Tony on the arm. “Now, my dear Tony, you have watched for long enough. You must be longing to take part, no?”

Tony’s throat goes dry. “No.” He shakes his head. “No, Walid. Don’t do this.”

“But I want to.” Walid shrugs. “This is the most fun I’ve had at a Fight Night in quite some time, Tony. I enjoy games you see, and this is turning out to be the best game of all. I want to see it reach its conclusion. I am still unclear as to what that might turn out to be.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a square of silk fabric, in a deep red colour.

“I got this especially for you, Tony,” he says, in a pleased tone of voice, as if giving Tony a gift. “Usually with new fighters we use a black hood, but for you, I thought red was more fitting.”

Walid gestures to his guards, and they grab Tony’s arms and hold him still while Walid shakes out the red square of silk to reveal that it’s a hood. Tony tries to twist away, but the hood is thrown over his head and something is pulled tight around his neck, keeping it in place.

“Ah, that’s good,” he hears Walid say with a chuckle. “What better treat to throw to a wolf than his own Little Red Riding Hood?”

~*~
End of Part Five
Part Six
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