xanthefic | Two Wolves

Two Wolves
By Xanthe
Chapter Two: Thrown to the Wolves

Tony blinks and moves his head, and a jolt of pain pierces him behind the eyeballs.

“You’re awake,” a voice says, and he squints up into a bright fluorescent light, wincing as the glare makes the pain in his head worse. Whatever drugs they put in his pizza were strong enough to bring down a horse, let alone a man. His throat is so dry it aches almost as bad as his head, and his lips are parched and chapped.

He sits up, slowly, and as he moves he can hear the jangle of chains. There are cuffs on his wrists and ankles, attached to the wall. He can move his arms and legs, but not far. He also realizes that he’s naked. His balls are resting on a cool metal floor, and he shifts his hips, trying to find a more comfortable position.

“Where am I?” he asks. His vision clears a little, and he can see that he’s in a small room with walls constructed out of the same lightweight sheet metal that he took photos of a few days ago.

“In a stall in my stable.” A man swims into sight. He’s handsome, with sleek dark hair and a little goatee beard, of indeterminate Middle Eastern origin, and expensively dressed. He exudes an air of exquisite elegance, and Tony can identify half a dozen different labels in what he’s wearing: Tanino Crisci shoes, an Armani suit, and a Gucci shirt buttoned at the wrists with a pair of exquisite Longmire cufflinks. There is a Rolex Submariner watch on his arm and a pair of aptly named Louis Vuitton Evasion sunglasses obscuring his eyes.

The man crouches down beside him and hands him a bottle of water. “You must be thirsty – the drugs do that – and I’m sure you have a bad headache. Drink. You’ll feel better.”

It crosses Tony’s mind that the water might be drugged too, but he doesn’t care; his throat is so dry it’s aching, and he longs to feel the water on his parched tongue. He tips back his head and drinks the entire bottle, and the man laughs.

Tony feels better now that he’s had something to drink, and he takes in his surroundings with more attention to detail. The room he is in is completely empty except for a toilet in the corner with a basin beside it, made from the same metal as the walls. There is one solitary chair in front of him. A guard is standing by the door, dressed in plain black pants and a black shirt; there’s a whip sticking out of his belt and a gun in his hand.

The expensively dressed man sits down on the chair. “Let me introduce myself; my name is Prince Walid.”

Tony gives his brightest smile. “Good to meet you, Walid. I’m sure you already know my name.”

“Of course, and you proved to be much more persistent than we expected, Mr DiNozzo. Or maybe the word is loyal. Most people aren’t so loyal to their bosses. I very much doubt my own men are.” The man glances over to the guard by the door. “Or at least not without being paid a very considerable sum to ensure that loyalty.”

Walid has an accent, but Tony can’t quite place it. He is also clearly very cultured, and Tony thinks he can hear the overtones of an expensive English education in his voice, combined with whatever his native accent is.

“We thought you would search for your boss for a while – a few months maybe – but that if we could show you how fruitless such a search to be, then you would give up. That is what most people would do.”

“I guess I’m not most people,” Tony replies.

“Indeed not.” Walid inclines his head. “Your devotion does you credit, although it mystifies me. You mystify me – and I’ll admit you also fascinate me. Why, Mr DiNozzo? Why didn’t you give up?”

“Well, I’ve never been a quitter.” Tony shrugs. There is no way he is letting this bastard know how he feels about Gibbs; that would be a huge tactical mistake. “Also…” he gives a little laugh. “I’m kinda stupid. If you know anything about me, you’ll know that.”

“Yes. I believe you really are stupid.” Walid sits back in his chair, looking at Tony thoughtfully from behind his sunglasses. Tony wishes he’d take them off – he can’t get a steer on what the man is thinking because he can’t see into his eyes. “We did some discreet investigations, and many of those who have encountered you say that you are an idiot. I wasn’t so sure…but now I’ve met you…” He leans forward again, a little smile on his lips. “Yes, I believe you are an idiot, Mr DiNozzo. A loyal idiot, I grant you, but an idiot all the same.”

“My dad always told me I was.” Tony grins again. “Maybe you know how it feels? I see you as…maybe the younger son of a large royal family?”

“Hmmm…not always an idiot then,” Walid murmurs thoughtfully.

“You have a lot of money, but they just see you as their kid brother. They don’t take you seriously, and they don’t give you anything important to do, so you have to make your own entertainment,” Tony hazards.

Walid shifts irritably. “You should not expect rescue,” he barks, changing the subject, and Tony is sure he’s hit a nerve there. “We took your passport, we bought you an airplane ticket, and we sent an email to your colleague, Agent McGee. It was all too much for you, you see, DiNozzo. You ran out on them.”

“Did I now?” Tony gives an amused grunt. At least Walid hasn’t figured out that he wanted to be captured. Then again, he’s fairly sure this man sitting in front of him would never understand why anyone would risk their life to save another person, so the idea probably never crossed his mind.

“They would expect that of the idiot. You are someone who engenders low expectations, DiNozzo, as I’m sure your father told you.”

Ouch. That barb hit home, as it was supposed to. Walid clearly wanted to land a hit of his own after Tony’s crack about his family not letting him do anything important.

“It’s a shame it came to this though.” Walid gives a theatrical sigh. “It’s unnecessary. Your superiors at NCIS gave you orders, and you were supposed to follow them. You were supposed to give up the investigation, go back to your job, forget all about Agent Gibbs, and accept the promotion we arranged for you – regretfully, of course. But you chose not to do that.”

“He’s a hard man to forget.” Tony shrugs.

“Now, that I believe.” A knowing smile plays around Walid’s lips.

“So, if you’d just give him back, then I’ll happily be out of here and on my way,” Tony says glibly.

“Oh, he is not mine to give back, and even if he was, I wouldn’t do it. He is one of our best fighters you see, Mr DiNozzo.”

Tony feels his heart give an almost painful jolt; it’s the first indication he’s had that Gibbs is still alive, outside the certainty in his own gut.

“I had no idea he would prove to be such a winner – it has turned him into quite a favourite with the crowds on Fight Nights. If I’d known, I might have kept him for my own stable instead of selling him on. But who would have thought a man his age would be so successful at our little game?”

“I coulda told you.”

“We took him initially to stop him asking so many awkward questions – he was clearly not a man who would give up in the face of obstruction, and we thought it the best way of silencing him. We had no idea he’d become a genuine contender. Scott is a lucky man.”

“Scott?”

“The player I sold him to. He got a bargain. Now, the question is what to do with you.” Walid sits back, a musing look on his face. “I could simply kill you, but it seems a waste. It’s too late in the season for you to be contender, but I expect you would put up a decent fight in the pit. And the crowd does so love to see a newbie floored by one of our seasoned pros.” He gives a malicious smile. “It is always so enjoyable to witness a newbie’s first lost fight: the shock, the distress, the tears and the struggles when they realize what losing *really* means.” Walid looks like he’s getting turned on, which makes Tony’s gut churn uneasily. “Oh, now that gives me a very pleasing idea.” Walid gives a little chuckle. “Let us talk more about Agent Gibbs. You risked your life to keep looking for him; you must think very highly of him.”

“Yeah, well, the old bastard grows on you after ten years of taking his head-slaps and putting up with his bad moods.” Tony watches Walid carefully, wondering where this is going.

“It’s more than that, or you would have given up on him a long time ago. He is your mentor, yes? Your teacher? Maybe a surrogate father, as your own father is so dismissive of you. Is that it? Hmm?”

Tony makes no reply. He knows his feelings for Gibbs are definitely not filial, but he can’t deny there’s something complicated about his fucked up relationship with his own father mixed up in what he feels for Gibbs, even if that’s something he’s never wanted to examine too closely.

“Or maybe he is simply your friend. Someone you can confide in. Maybe you go to him in times of trouble, and he helps. Yes?”

Tony thinks of the various times he’s stayed over at Gibbs’s place when there was some problem with his apartment, or just when he wanted the company and to be near the man. It’s always Gibbs he goes to whenever a case gets to him. There was that time after Dana Hutton died, and the time after his father left town; Gibbs has always been there for him when he needs him. He might not be a very touchy-feely kind of guy, but he’s always been rock solid for Tony – and Tony wants to be the same for him.

“Ah, there is no need to reply. I see it all in your eyes, Mr DiNozzo. Hmm, I think I will call you Tony. We know each other well enough now, yes?”

Walid suddenly leans forwards and removes his sunglasses with a languid flick of his fingers, and Tony finds himself looking into a pair of dark eyes that remind him vividly of a cobra. His gut registers a sudden chill; this man has a streak of cruelty that goes far beyond whatever pleasure he takes in watching kidnapped men fighting in his pits. There is something else going on here, something much darker.

“You know, I do get so very bored, Tony. Sometimes even Fight Nights don’t do it for me anymore,” Walid murmurs, plucking a piece of lint off his immaculately tailored pants. “I want something new…something more intense.” Those cruel eyes are looking at Tony curiously, a hint of amusement in their dark depths. “And I do find the idea of crushing a man’s loyalty and destroying his hero worship so very exhilarating.”

“If you’re talking about me and Gibbs, then I think you’ll be disappointed,” Tony replies, but his gut is churning again, and he’s suddenly very afraid of what Walid might be planning.

Walid gives an amused bark of laughter and gets to his feet. “Do you? I rather think I won’t.”
He turns to the guard. “We’ll take him with us this evening. No drugs. I want Mr DiNozzo to experience the real Gibbs, without anything to take the edge off that very considerable thrill.” He turns back to glance at Tony, a malicious gleam in his eyes. “I want him to see his hero for who he really is.”

~*~

Gibbs always wakes up with the same jittery feeling in his gut on fight day, but today it’s worse than ever. He hates the sense of anticipation, and he hopes they don’t have to drive too far to get to the fight; he just wants to get out there and start crushing his fist into an opponent’s face.

The other fighters give him a wide berth as they go into the communal showers. He’s getting into his pre-fight headspace and starting to exude the dangerous energy that has made him a winner in the pit for the past five months.

Steve slips on the wet floor and almost falls into him, and Gibbs gives a low growl. An anxious silence descends, and Steve makes his apologies and runs back to the safety of Sam Hurrell’s side. Gibbs glares at him.

After breakfast, they are placed in chains and herded onto the truck. Gibbs clenches his fists as they chain him in place. He is constricted, confined and restrained. It makes him angry, and he forces the anger into a tightly controlled ball of fire in his belly, where he will need it later.

He closes his eyes as the other fighters are chained into place around him. He can already smell the sawdust and the scent of the oil they use to make their skin slippery. He can hear the sound of the crowd roaring around him and feel the heat in his own body. Soon he will have the release he needs.

Soon he will fight and have the satisfaction of destroying the man who killed his family all over again. He’ll be able to punch his fist into James Scott’s face and sink his teeth into Ellis for playing his damn radio all night long. He will be able to unleash all his anger at his imprisonment and print it into the flesh of a nameless, faceless opponent. And afterwards he can sate his other need too – the need to fuck and release his sexual frustration.

The truck starts to move, and he hears the man next to him turning his head and feels his warm breath ghosting over his ear.

“So, what’s the plan, Agent Gibbs?” Sam Hurrell asks.

Gibbs opens his eyes. “What plan?” he growls, irritated that his pre-fight ritual has been interrupted.

“Your plan,” Hurrell replies intently. “I’ve been watching you all week, Gibbs, but I haven’t been able to get close enough to talk to you without the guards over-hearing, until now. You have a plan to end this. There’s no way a man like you submits to all this humiliating shit without putting up a fight.”

“I fight every damn week in the pits.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. Look, if there’s a plan I want in on it,” Hurrell tells him forcefully. “You can trust me. I can fight – you know that. I put up a good fight against you in the pit last week, didn’t I? You saw I could fight. So, I figure that whatever plan you have, it happens on Fight Night, yes?”

“There is no plan,” Gibbs says, in a low, dull tone. “There’s no fucking plan, Hurrell.”

“I don’t believe you. Like I said, I’ve been watching you all week, and I’ve never seen a more natural leader than you, Gibbs. If you wanted to organize these men…” he nods his head at the fighters in the back of the truck, “then you could have them eating out of your hand in seconds. I admire you for that.”

He leans back against the wall of the truck, a rueful smile on his face. “See, me…I’m not a natural leader, Gibbs. I’ve tried hard, and I do my best – I even went to a class once to learn how to be a good leader. I made lieutenant because the Corps saw something in me, but I’ve had to work at it. You don’t have to work at it. It’s who you are, right down to your bones; you’re a natural born leader.”

Gibbs closes his eyes again. He owes this man no explanations, and he sure as hell won’t give him excuses. He owes Hurrell nothing.

“See, you’re a legend not just at NCIS but in the Corps too,” Hurrell whispers urgently into his ear. “The Agent Gibbs I heard about was a real hard-ass. He wouldn’t just sit here and say there’s no fucking plan. He wouldn’t just sit back and be happy to let these bastards own him, without making any attempt to escape. So, who the hell are you, Gibbs? Because you’re not the man I thought you were.”

“And who the hell are you?” Gibbs snaps back, opening his eyes again.

Hurrell looks confused by the sudden change of tack. “What do you mean?”

“I knew your wife, Hurrell. I knew Jan. I was in your house. I patted your dogs and saw your wedding photos. Your wife made me a damn fine cup of coffee – she knows how a Marine likes to drink his coffee.”

Hurrell’s eyes are anguished, but Gibbs has no intention of letting him off the hook.

“I liked her. Your wife is a good woman. She’s devoted to you. She knew you hadn’t deserted, and she convinced me of that too. And yet you haven’t come to me and asked me one damn thing about her and how she’s doing.”

Hurrell’s hands clench into fists, and Gibbs knows that if he wasn’t chained to the wall of the truck that he’d take a swing at him.

“Jan made me believe you loved her too much to ever run out on her, but last night I heard the sounds you made when Steve was fucking you,” Gibbs continues relentlessly. “It’s one thing to have to fuck in the pit but nobody is holding a gun to your head at night in the stalls, Hurrell. So who are you? The loving, faithful husband Jan told me about and believed in? ‘Cause I’m not seeing him right now.”

All the fight goes out of Hurrell’s body, and that shame and guilt that Gibbs saw in his eyes the night he first met him floods back in. Gibbs almost wishes he hadn’t said that. He doesn’t judge Hurrell for what he does in his stall at night. Hell, he wouldn’t judge anyone for the ways they find to try and survive this ordeal. That’s why he’s so angry with Hurrell for judging him.

There is a long, shocked silence, and Gibbs is aware, not for the first time, that his embargo on apologies can be as hard on him as it is on the people around him.

Finally, Hurrell turns to him again. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Never apologise. It’s a sign of weakness,” Gibbs snaps back automatically. “Now shut up.”

He needs his pre-fight preparations. He needs the silence in order to get into his headspace.

He can’t even look at Hurrell as he forces himself to focus on getting ready for the night ahead. The pit is waiting for him, and he has to make sure he is in the right frame of mind to do whatever it takes to win.

~*~

Some time later the guard returns to the room, unlocks Tony’s chains, and takes him, at gunpoint, out of his stall. He’s escorted down a hallway and into what looks like Ducky’s autopsy suite but is clearly an infirmary. An elderly guy in a white coat with a stethoscope around his neck glances up. He’s got nicotine stains in his white beard, and he stinks of liquor.

“A newbie?” he frowns. “Kinda late in the season for Prince Walid to field a newbie, ain’t it?”

“He isn’t a serious contender,” the guard replies. “Just someone the boss wants out of the way.”

“Hey, how do you know I’m not a serious contender? I can fight!” Tony tries a disarming grin, but the doctor just grunts. Tony uses the moment to take a good look around, trying to figure out the weaknesses in this setup. So far he hasn’t seen any, but there has to be something. He’ll know it when he sees it.

The doctor leans over to place the stethoscope on his chest, and Tony leans back, waving a hand in front of his nose as he gets a whiff of the man’s stinking breath.

“You drink on duty?”

“Yeah. That’s why I don’t have a medical license anymore and have to work in this shithole with you fuckers.”

“That’s reassuring,” Tony mutters.

The guard is leaning against the wall, clearly bored, and the doctor is drunk on his ass, so Tony seizes the opportunity.

“Did you ever see that movie about the doctor with the drinking problem who…” he waves his arms around enthusiastically and knocks the doctor’s stethoscope to the floor on purpose. “Shit, I’m sorry…” He bends to pick it up and hangs it around the man’s neck again, patting his coat down apologetically and using the distraction to slip his fingers into the doctor’s pockets. He comes up empty. No cell phone. Not even a wallet. The guy has nothing on him except a screwed up handkerchief.

The doctor pushes him away irritably and turns to the guard.

“What dose does our lord and master want him on?”

“No drugs,” the guard replies.

The doctor shakes his head sadly, making a ‘tsking’ sound with his tongue. “None?” The doctor glances at Tony. “You poor bastard. What the hell did you do to piss off Walid so badly?”

“I asked him about his childhood. That seemed to upset him. I have no idea why,” Tony responds facetiously.

“Whatever the hell you said, I don’t envy you in the pit. Is he fighting tonight?” The doctor looks at the guard again.

“No idea.” The guard shrugs.

“Well, if you are…” the doctor turns back to Tony. “Then I pity you.”

“Why? I don’t need drugs to be able to fight.”

The doctor laughs. “Well, maybe not, but your opponents will be hopped up on ‘em all the same. That makes them stronger, faster, angrier, and hornier than you. You’ll be lucky to get out of there alive.”

“Hornier?” Tony raises an eyebrow. “What’s the advantage in that?”

The doctor snorts through his yellow moustache and pats his arm. “Oh, you’ll see, son. You’ll see. Better hope for your own sake that your opponent *is* horny.”

Tony doesn’t like the sound of that, but he doesn’t have time to give it any further thought because at that moment the door opens, and a giant of a man steps into the room.

Like Tony, he’s completely naked, but unlike Tony, he looks completely at ease with that fact. He inhabits his skin like it’s clothing, walking confidently, his big cock swinging in front of him. There’s a bite mark on his cheek and one of his earlobes is missing. He puts Tony in mind of a feral tomcat, all bulging balls, thick neck, and cocky arrogance.

A guard steps into the room behind him, but the big man doesn’t look like he’s being forced to go anywhere against his will; the guard looks more like a bodyguard than a jailer.

The big man glances at Tony and his face breaks into a grin, revealing a couple of missing teeth.

“New blood?” he chuckles, in a deep, throaty voice. Tony wonders just how much testosterone you have to feed someone to get a timbre of voice that low and gravelly. “He’s pretty. Nice of the boss to get me a new piece of ass to celebrate my victory tonight.”

Tony doesn’t like the predatory way this guy is looking at him, like he’s a piece of meat. He wonders if this is how women feel when a guy is hitting on them and won’t take no for an answer. This guy definitely looks like he won’t take no for an answer, and Tony has to force himself not to shrink back against the exam table. Now is not a good time to show any weakness.

“You haven’t won yet, Mac,” the doctor replies, but there’s a look of frank admiration on his face.

“You gonna bet against me, Doc?” Mac asks.

“Hell no! You’re the fireman. Ain’t nobody gonna bet against you!”

“Too fucking right. I’m fucking unbeatable out there.” Mac’s eyes light up. “Maybe this is a pre-fight treat for me?” he asks, leering at Tony again. “I’m tired of the ass in this place. I’ve fucked ‘em all, and they’re a bunch of fucking whiners. I want a new toy to play with.” He grabs his cock and it swells in his big fist, becoming dark and erect almost instantly.

Tony wants to back out of this room and get as far away from this bastard and his ugly erection as he can, but there’s no place to go. He doubts whether the doctor or the guard would stop Mac if the big man decided to throw him over the exam table and fuck him in front of them.

Mac moves towards him, his cock jutting out from his body, pointing straight at Tony.

“Not this one,” Tony’s guard says, stepping between them, much to Tony’s relief. “He’s not for you, Mac.”

“Sez who?”

“Boss’s orders. He wants this one kept fresh for later.”

There’s something about the way the guard says that, and the way he glances at him, that makes Tony more uneasy than all Mac’s leering.

“Well, if the newbie ain’t being given drugs, there’s nothing more I can do with him,” the doctor says. “I don’t know why you even brought him here.”

“Just following procedure.” The guard shrugs.

“Aren’t you going to listen to my heart some more? See if I’m fit enough to fight?” Tony asks.

The doctor laughs. “Oh, I don’t think it matters much if you are or not. You’re just pit fodder, nothin’ more. I ain’t gonna waste any more of my time on ya. You can put him in the truck.”

He jerks his head, and the guard grabs Tony’s arm and propels him towards the door.

“Later, pretty!” Mac calls after him. “If you win, I’ll ask for you to be put in my stall tonight, so I can fuck that sweet ass of yours!”

Tony makes a face. “If that’s the prize for winning, then I think I’ll lose thanks.”

Mac laughs. “Either way, that slick little hole of yours is gonna get fucked good and hard before dawn!”

Tony is grateful to be propelled out of the door, back into the hallway, and out of the firing line of Mac’s ugly, erect penis.

He’s escorted along the hallway and into a big, hangar-sized space where a truck is waiting. He’s herded at gunpoint into the truck where several other naked men are already sitting, chained to the truck’s walls.

“Wow, Walid’s a real cheapskate. Can’t even buy us some pants, huh?” Tony jokes, grinning at the other men. Nobody so much as smiles at him in return; they all look grim and anxious, and Tony can feel the tension in the air.

“Shut up and sit down,” one of the men growls at him.

Tony does as he’s told, and the guard comes over and chains him to the wall of the truck, just like all the others. The chains are cold and heavy on his stomach, tying him in place, and his ankles are thrust into a pair of manacles and fastened to hooks in the floor. These are heavy-duty chains; there are no weakness here and absolutely no chance of escape.

A few minutes later Mac leaps into the back of the truck.

“Hey bitches!” he announces. “Tonight’s winner is here, so I guess we’re good to go! Man, I’m on fire tonight.” He gives a deep, crowing laugh. “You losers will all eat sawdust, but I’m gonna fight good and dirty and claim me some prime ass.”

Tony notices that nobody in the truck meets Mac’s eye, and he understands why. This is not a man you want noticing you. He can believe Mac’s earlier boast that he’s fucked all of these men. They look like they all hate him but are too scared to stand up to him.

Mac sits down, but unlike the rest of them, he isn’t chained into place. Tony wonders why, but doesn’t give that a lot more thought because at that moment Mac opens his legs wide to reveal his thick, semi-erect cock again. He grins at Tony and nods at his growing erection, wetting his lips with his tongue.

“If you’re lucky, you’ll get to suck on this monster tonight, sweetheart!”

Maybe it’s all just talk, but judging by how the other men in the truck are behaving, he suspects that Mac means it. Tony is starting to understand the environment he’s thrown himself so recklessly into. There are no women here, just men, and men who are being fed a cocktail of drugs. Clearly the law of the jungle reigns supreme, and if Mac is strong enough to hold him down and fuck him then nobody here will stop him – not the guards or the other fighters. Prince Walid is fostering a dog-eat-dog atmosphere on purpose, presumably because he thinks it makes better fighters. Perhaps it does.

“Got a good pair of cock-sucking lips on you, pretty boy, just made to suck dick,” Mac continues, still leering at him. “I’ll get you to suck it first, make it nice and wet, then ram it up your tight asshole.”

“Oh, you’re a regular Mac-the-mouth, aren’t you?” Tony replies, rolling his eyes.

“I told you to shut the fuck up!” someone further along the line of chained men roars at Tony. Tony cranes his head to see a stocky guy glaring at him.

“Cool it, Spencer,” someone else says softly.

“No, I won’t cool it! Christ, it’s fucking Fight Night! Some of us want to get our heads in the zone, and this idiot doesn’t have a goddamn clue!”

Tony clamps down on another smartass reply. Ten years of working with Gibbs has given him an instinct for when not to open his mouth and earn a head-slap, and the same principle applies here. He can feel the tension in the truck, but he’s not sure why they are so hyped up about the upcoming fight. Haven’t they all been doing this for some time? It might not be nice to be thrown into a pit naked and made to fight but the sheer level of tension in the truck makes him realize he’s missing something. Just what doesn’t he know about these fights?

Across the truck Mac winks at him, and Tony is suddenly even more acutely aware of being completely naked, vulnerable, and on display. He wonders if that’s something you get used to, in time. Has Gibbs got used to it? He can’t imagine Gibbs tolerating this kind of treatment for one second…but if they beat him enough, then even Gibbs would have had to learn to endure it. Tony has seen the whips in the guards’ belts, and he’s sure they’re not just for show.

He doesn’t like to think of Gibbs taking beatings, but he knows there’s no way Gibbs just rolled over and showed them his belly. That’s never been Gibbs’s style.

What damage would stubborn resistance have done to him though? If they’ve beaten him into submission, can he still be the man Tony once knew?

Will he even recognize Gibbs when he sees him? After five months in this brutal environment, will Tony find him broken beyond repair?

~*~

They’re walking along the road, talking. He doesn’t find it easy talking with anyone except his mom, but when it’s just the two of them, alone together, he finds he can open up. She has a gift for drawing him out, teasing him, and making him laugh. She glances down at him, encouraging him to tell her what happened at school that day.

It wasn’t much – just a little fight – his knuckles barely got scraped. He finds it hard to make friends, but she says it’s just a phase, and he’ll learn to fit in eventually. It hasn’t been easy though, since his mom and dad separated. None of the other kids have parents who don’t live together, and he gets angry when they tease him.

The car comes out of nowhere. One minute he’s talking to his mom, and the next there’s a screech of tires, and he feels himself being lifted up and slammed down on the road. A sharp stabbing pain in his knee makes him cry out. He calls for his mother, but when he turns his head he sees her lying against a nearby tree, her body folded in such a way that she can’t be alive. Nobody can be alive and look like that.

The car that hit them doesn’t stop. It weaves drunkenly into the distance and is gone. It’s dusk, and he didn’t even see what colour it was, let alone get a licence plate number. His leg hurts so much, but not as much as seeing his mom lying over there, and the bastard that killed her driving away. His entire life has changed in the space of a couple of minutes, and a wave of helpless rage sweeps through his body. He throws back his head and screams…

Gibbs wakes with a start. He’s still in the back of the truck; without a watch it’s hard to tell how much time has passed, but it seems to be a long drive to this particular venue. He shakes his head, trying to clear the fuzziness. He’s dreamed that dream before, too many times to count, but not for a long time. When he was a teenager he often woke up with that scream dying in his throat, but after he met Shannon it stopped. Since Shannon and Kelly died, he’s had a different nightmare to haunt his sleep, but this one sometimes returns, usually when he’s least expecting it.

It’s more of a memory than a dream, his brain endlessly reliving the trauma of his mother’s death when he was eight years old. They never did catch the bastard who killed her, and he spent weeks in the hospital recovering before going to live with his father. The rage at her senseless death has remained with him his entire life, along with the weakness in his knee that he tries so hard to hide. When Shannon and Kelly were murdered, he refused to accept another injustice. He couldn’t get any justice for his mom, because he was just a kid back then, but he sure as hell could get it for his wife and child – and he did.

The dream has reopened an old wound that never completely healed, and the timing is good. He can use that sense of rage and injustice from his childhood in tonight’s fight. His mom was never avenged, but he can have that vengeance now, taking it out on whomever they throw into the pit against him. He won’t be defeated tonight; he has too much fire in his belly. They’ll have to kill him before he surrenders.

He glances around the truck at the other fighters and sees that Steve is asleep. He’s lurching sideways, his head resting on Hurrell’s shoulder, but Hurrell is awake, a grim look in his eyes. Gibbs is sure he has a similar look in his own eyes, as they both think about what will happen in the pit later.

Nothing is a foregone conclusion. Some will lose and be taken to a different stable, owned by a different bastard. Others will win and come back in this truck. All of them will nurse various new injuries. If they’re lucky, none of them will die tonight. How long can his body keep taking this kind of punishment? He still has yellowing bruises on his skin from last week’s fight, and he’s not getting any younger.

Steve mumbles something in his sleep, and Hurrell rests his head against Steve’s, murmuring something to him. It’s not just about sex then, Gibbs realizes, in surprise. Hurrell seems to feel a genuine affection for Steve. Maybe that’s how he keeps some sense of himself in this nightmare world; making bonds with weaker fighters, looking out for them and having sex with them. Maybe that’s his way of keeping hold of his own humanity.

Gibbs isn’t convinced that keeping hold of your humanity will help keep you alive though. In order to survive, he has tried to shut down every frail, human weakness and keep his mind fixed on going out into the pit every Fight Night and winning.

The truck rumbles to a halt, and the fighters sit up. The level of tension ratchets up a notch, the way it always does when they arrive at the venue.

The back of the truck is opened, and the guards unlock their chains from the walls and herd them at gunpoint into the open air. The handcuffs on his wrists are attached to the chains around his midriff and those in turn are attached to the manacles around his ankles. They’re as heavy-duty as the restraints on a prisoner being escorted to a high security prison, and there’s absolutely no chance of escape.

Gibbs pauses to take a big gulp of fresh air. Fight Nights are the only chance he gets to see the outside world, and it’s so good to feel the breeze on his skin and to gaze up at the crescent moon overhead. It’s a warm night, the air heavy, sticky and oppressive, but at least he’s out in the open, even if it’s only for a short time.

Scott’s fighters are usually herded into a holding pen to wait for their fighting slot in the pit, but Gibbs finds himself prodded at gunpoint away from the group. Maybe he’s got first fight – that would be good, as he’ll get the hard part of the evening out of the way early. It’s always nerve-wracking to sit in the holding pen, hearing the sounds from the pit and knowing it’ll be your turn soon.

However, instead of being taken to the pit-side holding pen, he’s shoved towards the stands surrounding the pit instead. These are makeshift bleachers, clearly temporary structures, and a little rickety.

The guard prods him up some stairs and then he finds himself in a position he’s never been in before. He’s standing up above, looking down on the pit, instead of being in the pit looking out. The pit looks smaller from up here, and he can barely even smell the sawdust. The stench of hamburgers, popcorn and beer is much stronger up here though, in this twisted parody of a spectator sport.

The crowd is already starting to assemble, and he finds it strange to be amongst so many clothed bodies. They stare at him as he is prodded up the stairs, naked and moving slowly in his chains. His presence amongst them draws attention, and a little hush descends over this section of the stands as he shuffles his way up the bleachers.

“Wolfman! Hey – it’s the wolfman!” someone yells, and even more people turn to stare at him.

A bearded young man comes running up, and Gibbs’s guard raises his gun warningly to keep him at arm’s length. The man comes to a halt a few yards away and gazes at Gibbs with a look of adoration.

“Wolfman! Oh my God, it’s the freaking wolfman! You’re my favourite! You’re such a mean son of a bitch out in the pit!” he calls admiringly before the guard pushes him away.

“Yeah, you’re a mean SOB, but would it kill you to smile just once, Wolfman?” someone else yells, and the crowd dissolves into a fit of laughter.

“It just might,” Gibbs growls, and the crowd thinks he’s joking with them and laugh some more.

Gibbs wonders how the hell they can reconcile their obvious hero-worship of him with the fact that he’s standing here, stark naked and chained.

He realizes that he is, in some sick way, a celebrity. He might be a prisoner, but he is also a well-known face to these people. They’ve watched him fighting and fucking in the pit for months. They feel that, on some level, they even know him. Nothing could be further from the truth. They don’t even know his name. All they know is Wolfman, the name they’ve given to him, and the persona that they’ve projected onto him from the comfort of their cosy, pit-side seats.

These people have no idea what it’s like to fight down there in the pit. To know that one fight stands between you and possible death, and that your life depends solely on your own skill, courage and strength. You have no clothes and no weapons. You just have yourself. You are as alone out there as it’s possible to be.

Up here, you get a different perspective entirely. You can believe the men fighting for their lives down there are nothing more or less than the make-believe people in movies or on TV. It isn’t real to the people up here the way it is when you’re standing in the pit.

A part of him even pities them for not knowing how it feels to stand in the pit just before a fight, with the adrenaline pumping through your veins. He might hate being forced to fight for their entertainment, but he’s never felt more alive than when standing down there in the sawdust just before a fight.

He glances around at the people gathered to watch this sick, obscene sport. He’s struck by how ordinary they look. There are several cliques of very obviously wealthy folk, sitting side by side with much rougher-looking individuals, and while the majority of the audience is made up of men, there are plenty of women around too.

He’s shoved along a row of seats to where his owner is sitting, surrounded by a little entourage of people that Gibbs knows all too well. There’s Frank, the wizened little old guy who oversees his gruelling daily training sessions; Dr Tanner, who looks as coked off his head as usual; and some of the guards who aren’t on duty tonight. Gibbs is pushed into the vacant seat next to Scott, and his owner turns and gives him a beaming smile.

“Ah, Leroy. I thought you might appreciate the view from up here!” He makes no reply, and Scott laughs. “Never very talkative, our Leroy! Strictly speaking, the fighters aren’t allowed on the bleachers, but I pulled a few strings. I’m quite a player now, you know, thanks to you.”

Gibbs turns to give the man a hard stare, but Scott ignores it.

“It also helped that Prince Walid wanted a favour from me tonight. Prince Walid himself! He owns this entire setup, you know. This – the fights, the pits – the whole thing was his idea in the beginning. It’s grown so much over the past few years – it’s big business now.”

“His mom must be so proud,” Gibbs says sarcastically.

“He’s a very important man – and I was able to do him a favour – so he did one for me!” Scott beams, clearly getting off on being considered a major player.

The place is filling up, and there’s an air of palpable excitement pervading the arena. A hush falls as the commentator announces the first fight of the evening, and a second later one of the pit-side holding pens is opened, and a big man struts into the pit like he belongs there.

“Fire-man, Fire-man, Fire-man!” the crowd chants, and Gibbs feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. This is what it’s like experiencing these fights as a member of the audience, and he can tell that they know this fighter well. He’s a crowd-pleaser, and Gibbs can see why. He charges around the pit, urging them on to louder cat-calls and more thunderous levels of applause, and the audience, loving it, duly obliges.

“He’s a showman,” Scott says. “You know, you could learn something from him, Leroy. The crowd adores him. He’s brutal, of course, but a great fighter, and he plays up to the crowd. He gets them on his side. You could do that, Leroy.”

“I could if I gave a damn.”

“I get it. Not your style. You like to shut out everything but your opponent when you’re fighting. But maybe afterwards?” Scott glances at him. “You could engage with the crowd more, give them some entertainment value, and put on more of a show.”

Gibbs turns to give him an incredulous stare. He’s fighting for his life every time he steps out into the pit, and Scott wants him to be entertaining? The anger that’s never far beneath the surface courses through his veins again, and if he wasn’t chained he’d slam his fist into the man’s stupid fat face right here and now.

“Who’s the best fucking fighter in the pit?” the fireman yells, and the crowd goes into a frenzy.

“You are! Fire-man! Fire-man! Fire-man!”

“That’s not his real name, of course,” Scott tells Gibbs.

“You don’t say.”

“His real name is Liam McIntyre, and he’s one of the two biggest stars in the entire tournament.”

“Really.” Gibbs couldn’t put less interest in his tone of voice if he tried.

“Don’t you want to know who the other one is?” Scott nudges him conspiratorially.

“No.”

“You are!” Scott laughs. “You are, Leroy. One of MY fighters is the other biggest star of the tournament! If you keep on winning, then you’ll face Mac in the final. He’s your main competition, Leroy, so watch him closely.”

Gibbs is interested in this piece of news, despite himself. Often, he only sees an opponent for the first time when he steps into the pit with him. He might have caught a glimpse of him on a previous Fight Night, while waiting in the pit-side holding pen to go on next, but that’s not much to go on. Being allowed to watch the fight from up here is actually a huge tactical advantage, and he wonders what Scott had to give Walid in return to make it happen.

The gate to the holding pen on the opposite side of the pit is opened, and a guy he recognizes from the previous week runs out. He’s lithe and sleek, covered in tattoos, and he likes to play the audience too. Gibbs remembers how he brutally dispatched the newbie kid last Fight Night. Tattoo Guy runs around the pit, trying to get the audience going, but it’s clear their affections are with Mac.

Mac gives Tattoo Guy a few seconds to play the crowd, and then he lumbers forward. He’s a huge mountain of a man; some of his bulk is fat, but Gibbs can see that a lot of it is muscle. The combination is extremely effective, and Tattoo Guy, although tall, looks dwarfed by him.

Mac is clearly a hard opponent to beat; he has a massive weight advantage for a start. But Gibbs has found that when all you have to fight with are your wits, experience and killer instinct, then weight and height are less of an advantage than sheer bloody-minded determination – and Tattoo Guy’s got plenty of that. He’s also not afraid to fight dirty – but it soon becomes clear that Mac isn’t, either.

Tattoo Guy puts up a good fight, and Gibbs rates him as one of the better fighters on the circuit, but Mac is too big, too relentless, and too mean a bastard to bring down. After some brutish fighting that draws blood on both sides, Mac manages to kick his opponent in the balls and then throws his entire weight on top of him to bring him down. He then sits on top of his felled opponent and lands punch after brutal punch on Tattoo Guy’s face.

Gibbs isn’t even sure Tattoo Guy is conscious when the referee finally stops the fight and pulls Mac off. Whether the man is conscious or not, he’ll get fucked – that’s the way this game works. Mac has a leer on his face as he circles his fallen victim

“Fire-man! Fire-man! Fire-man!” the crowd chants again, and Mac milks it for all he’s worth, massaging his big dick and thrusting his groin out as the audience cheers him on.

“Bet you’re wondering how he got that pit name,” Scott says to Gibbs.

“Nope.”

“Sure you are.”

Mac turns back to Tattoo Guy, who is moaning softly, barely moving. He grabs the man, slings him effortlessly over his shoulder, and runs around the pit with him.

“’Cause of that?” Gibbs raises an eyebrow.

Scott grins at him. “Nope. You’ll see.”

Gibbs can feel his gut tightening as he watches the drama unfold in the pit. He wonders what it feels like to be slung over Mac’s shoulder and carried around like a piece of meat and promises himself that he’ll never let it happen to him. Mac is a formidable opponent though, no doubt about it, and he’ll be hard to beat. Gibbs clamps down on that thought – he can’t afford any doubts. He mustn’t let this bastard get into his head, or he’ll have no chance against him when they finally meet in the pit.

He watches as Mac finishes his victory march around the pit and then slings his prize down on the ground. Gibbs has done this himself, too many times to count, but it’s different viewing it as a spectator. He can feel a certain amount of pity for Tattoo Guy now, although he’s sure the man showed none for his victims in the past, any more than Gibbs ever has in the pit.

Gibbs fazes out as McIntyre skewers Tattoo Guy with his big dick, making obscene gestures at the audience as he fucks his victim into the sawdust. Gibbs glances around the audience instead, trying to get the measure of this event from his unique vantage point. He can see various clusters of what must be owners – wealthy men, with armed guards around them. His gaze stops on one man who is clearly the emperor of this event, seated on a big, padded chair over on the other side of the arena. He’s middle-eastern in appearance, darkly handsome and exquisitely dressed. That has to be Walid.

Walid seems to feel Gibbs’s gaze on him because he looks up, straight at him. He stares at Gibbs for a moment, and then he nods his head gravely in his direction. Gibbs makes absolutely no response, and a second later Walid’s handsome face breaks into a broad grin, and he laughs softly to himself, never taking his eyes off Gibbs the entire time.

Chanting breaks out in the crowd again, drawing Gibbs’s gaze back to the pit, and he sees Mac finishing up with Tattoo Guy. The big man comes with a mighty bellow and then withdraws and stands up…but judging by the sense of eager anticipation among the crowd, he isn’t done yet.

Gibbs watches as McIntyre stands over his victim, grabs his flaccid dick, and pisses all over the fallen man.

Scott turns to him. “That’s how he got his pit name.”

“Oh shit,” Gibbs mutters in disgust.

“See, that’s what happens when you lose to Big Mac.” Scott’s eyes are dark and serious. “So you have to make sure you don’t lose, Leroy, when the time comes.”

Gibbs makes no reply. He doesn’t need any extra incentives; he’ll die out there rather than surrender.

“Oh, he’s good – I didn’t want you to underestimate him – that’s why I brought you up here today,” Scott says. “But you’re good too, Leroy. Look, I want to show you something.” Scott gets out his cell phone and flicks his fingers across the screen a few times. Then he holds it up, and Gibbs finds himself looking at a piece of video footage.

“It’s you,” Scott tells him. “At your last fight.”

It’s fascinating watching himself prowling around the pit – he looks focused, deadly, and completely in the moment. His concentration doesn’t lapse for even a second – that’s always been one of his strengths.

“You can beat Mac,” Scott says. “The wolfman can beat the fireman.”

“Mac is about twenty years younger than me and thirty pounds heavier,” Gibbs points out.

“You can beat him if you’re angry enough,” Scott says. “Your anger is your greatest weapon, Leroy. Be angry out there. I don’t care who the hell you’re angry with, but I’ve never seen a man feel anger like you do without losing focus. That’s why you’re so good.”

Gibbs gives another grunt. He has a grudging respect for what Scott’s doing. He’s playing him to get the best out of him, the way he’s been playing him for months now, and it’s working.

Scott’s attitude changes from serious to laid-back in an instant, and he gives another of those lazy, deceptive grins and leans forward. “It’s time for your fight now, Leroy,” he says.

~*~
End of Part Four
Part Five
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Posted by

theeverdream.livejournal.com

Such a huge difference from up there in the stands.

Your writing is awesome - makes me feel like I'm there, which is so horribly effective for a dark story like this!

Can't wait to see what happens with Tony and Gibbs meeting.

Posted by

Xanthe's Story Journal

Two Wolves - 4/19

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