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howdy-cowpoke · 5 months ago

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TIMING: Current LOCATION: Prickly Pear Acres PARTIES: Daisy (farm hand NPC), Felix (@recoveringdreamer), & Wynne (@ohwynne) SUMMARY: Daisy, Felix, and Wynne are playing a low-stakes game of horseshoes that none of them are particularly good at, chatting and having a good time when they suddenly smell smoke. CONTENT WARNINGS: none.

—

Maybe the party was something Felix needed. With everything going on lately, they felt so much heavier than they were used to. They couldn’t stop thinking about Samir, couldn’t stop hearing that brutal snap that had ended the fight between Razor and Lockjaw. It didn’t help that they’d lost their ability to escape the Pit when Leo forced them into living in the boiler room, either. These days, Felix went from the ring to the boiler room in a way that made it difficult to feel as though he was anything but property of the Grit Pit. The small rebellions he’d planned with Wyatt helped, but they only went so far.

The party would go further. Felix was sure of it, was confident that being here and relaxing would… fix something, even if they weren’t sure what. They’d feel better after a few hours spent with kind people playing party games. They were sure of it.

Even so, they stuck mostly to people they knew. They’d spent most of the day glued to Daisy’s side, taking comfort in her familiarity and trying to convince her to let them help with some of the cleanup that would surely await her at the party’s end. They figured they should probably participate in the actual party, too, though, so when they saw Wynne playing horseshoes, they headed over. “I, um… I think I’ll probably be bad at this,” they greeted Wynne with a sheepish grin. “But it could be fun, right? Do you know the rules? Are there rules?”

—

This was good. After everything that had happened at the farm, all the hands had been delighted by the idea of having a party for them and their friends. They were permitted to invite whoever they pleased, with the mutual understanding that safety and security was paramount. There were some people here that Daisy knew, friends of Monty’s, and many more she did not. But she was excellent at making new friends, and she didn’t mind one bit that Felix had decided she was going to be their chaperone for the evening. They were a sweet young thing, and Daisy adored their gentle, genuine kindness. It was such a hard thing to come by these days!

Following them to greet the person tossing horseshoes, Wynne—who Daisy was somewhat familiar with, having seen them around the farm a few times already, the woman piped up at the question about rules. “First to forty points or whoever has the most points after fifty shoes pitched wins! A ringer, so gettin’ that there shoe around the stake, is three points! Touchin’, leanin’, or within six inches is one point. I think there’s more ‘bout the pitchin’ area n’ all, but that’s far too complex for a little ol’ party game, don’t ya think?” She beamed, leaning over to pick up two horseshoes from the box they were sitting in and passing the pair to Felix. “And I think you’re gonna do great, sweetheart!” She looked at Wynne, still wearing that wide, effortless smile. “I do think we’ve got some stiff competition here, though! Why don’t you start, dear? You’re already warmed up.”

—

There was something so sweet about Prickly Pear Acres. Ever since their first visit – when they’d gotten Rhiannon – they had returned with pure glee, reveling in the familiarity that came with farmlife. Wynne liked that they could encounter these things without sacrifices and other demonic cult things and that it could be celebrated. It almost all felt like life could be alright. And so they had split from Ariadne for a while to figure out what the games were about, often anxiously checking for a blonde head in the crowd.

Throwing horseshoes was ridiculous, of course! Horseshoes had a purpose. But most of the ones they were throwing were bendy and rusted, so it was alright and not a waste of resources. Wynne had been attempting to understand how to best go about it before Felix and Daisy arrived. “Oh,” they said, giving them both a smile. “Hi! I think it is fun. I like throwing things without purpose — well, I guess there is a purpose. To win!” They weren’t very competitive, but they could try to be. Even if their opposition was Felix, who they liked a lot and didn’t want to make sad about losing. As Daisy explained the rules, Wynne went to collect the horseshoes they’d thrown, most of them scattered around the stake. (Stake – vampire – barn. Their mind traveled for a moment but they returned to the metal objects in their hands.)

“Alright!” They returned, putting the horseshoes they’d gathered down save one and threw one. It clinked against the pole but did not circle it. Wynne frowned. “Well. That’s one! I – you go now, Felix. And you, are you playing too, Daisy?” They swallowed and added coyly: “Or are you afraid to lose?”

—

Daisy explained the rules, and it turned out there were a lot of them. Felix wasn’t sure they understood the point system, and they were confident they weren’t going to be good at it. They’d always had poor aim when it came to throwing things, something that had become almost a joke among their siblings when they were young. Hand Felix the ball, and you take on responsibility for whatever vase gets broken when he throws it, their mother had warned, though she’d always done so with a warm smile. Felix took the horseshoe Daisy offered them now, the weight of it different than any baseball they’d ever held. Weird.

They offered Wynne a smile, deciding that losing to them wouldn’t be so bad, anyway. Wynne deserved a victory or two in the books, Felix thought. (They tried not to think about Wynne at Watcher’s Way, strangely stiff and terrified. This was a much better way to see them. This was how Felix wanted them to be.)

Already, Wynne threw with more accuracy than Felix thought they could manage. They laughed, taking a step forward. “Uh, do I get points for not hitting a person? That’s going to be my main goal,” they joked, tossing a horseshoe and coming… nowhere close to the pole. “Daisy, you should play!”

—

Nothing made Daisy happier than seeing people she cared for having a good time. Both Wynne and Felix had become just that over the months, and she’d mothered them both in that way she mothered most people from the moment she met them. Hands on her hips and a grin on her face, she watched the friends toss their shoes towards the stake and chuckled at Wynne’s teasing. Splaying a hand over her chest, she shook her head. “Me? Afraid to lose? Why, I don’t think I know the meanin’ of the word! ‘Afraid’, that is. Not lose. I know what losin’ is.” She laughed again, nodding at Felix’s insistence and picking up a horseshoe of her own from the box. “All right, all right, you’ve both convinced me.” Focusing in, the tall woman took a short breath and tossed the shoe through the air, slapping a hand to her forehead when it landed even further away than Felix’s. “Dang! You’d think I’d be a better shot, what with the lasso-in’ n’ all! Guess that’s not a direct translation, huh?” She scurried over to pick up the shoes they’d all thrown, passing them back out again as she joined the others near the box. Noticing a ladybug of all things on Felix’s shoulder, she reached out and coaxed it onto her finger. “Hey, now that’s good luck, love! You might win this after all!”

—

They hadn’t seen much of Felix since the incident on Watcher’s Way, even if they had very much kept in touch. It had just been such an ugly, inexplicable and harrowing moment that Wynne would prefer all thought of it. And so they tried not to think of it now, as they all stood around to try and win a very silly game. It was a good distraction, a good way to look at the world through rose-tinted glasses and pretend it was all so very simple.

They watched both Felix and Daisy miss and there was a giddiness rising in their chest. Even though they weren’t the most competitive person out there, the fact that winning was now a more near reality made them excited. “You both tried very well!” They beamed at Daisy as she returned with the horseshoes, wondering how in the world someone could not know the meaning of the word afraid — both literally and in the way she meant it. “Are you really never afraid?”

Wynne rocked back and forth on their feet for a moment as they stared at the stake before breathing in and throwing their horseshoe. It missed, falling a foot or two in front of the stake. “Oh!” It was hard not to sound disappointed.

—

It was nice, the idea of relaxing with two friends and enjoying a nice moment. The world had been… a lot lately, to say the very least. There were giant legs sticking out of the ground, there were unknown dangers lurking around every corner. Playing horseshoes with two people they cared for was a nice reprieve, even if they were pretty sure they’d be bad at it. At least they seemed able to make one throw better than Daisy’s, something that brought a small smile to the balam’s face. “I can’t be worse at this than I was at rollerblading,” they quipped, flashing Daisy a grin at the reminder.

They glanced towards their shoulder as Daisy coaxed the ladybug off it, humming thoughtfully. “She’s cute,” they said. “Maybe she’ll bring me some luck. I probably need luck.” Wynne’s question had Felix curious, too. In all the time they’d known Daisy, she’d certainly seemed fearless. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her cower, and there was something so admirable about that. Felix often wished they could be the same, even if they knew it wasn’t how they were constructed.

“Everybody’s afraid sometimes,” they mused, watching Wynne line up to take their shot. “Right? It’s… human nature.” They glanced uncertainly to Wynne. Neither Felix nor Daisy was human, but they thought Wynne probably was, and they weren’t sure that Wynne knew that they were in the minority with that in this particular trio. Still, they thought, fear wasn’t limited to humanity alone. Felix was afraid most of the time, after all. “Ah, close!” They said as Wynne’s horseshoe fell short. “I guess none of us are really professionals, are we?”

—

If Daisy was honest with herself, of course she felt fear. It might be rare for her, but she still experienced it. That night that the farm had been attacked hadn't given her enough time to be terrified, and she had jumped straight to anger. She'd been furious. Heartbroken. But the fear had come later — when she'd seen Monty withdraw, when she'd seen Kaden trying to help him out of that dark place. When she'd worried about everyone on the farm but herself, afraid that the worst was yet to come.

“Well… sure, you're right. Maybe once or twice in my life,” she conceded with a laugh, watching as Wynne’s toss didn't quite make it to the stake. “No, we certainly are not!”

Even with lights illuminating the area very well in the darkness of night, their throws seemed to miss more often than not. That was okay, though. Daisy got the feeling they were all having a good time regardless, and felt pretty okay with Wynne still being in the lead. They were a sweet young thing, not unlike Felix, and she was happy to hand over a win. A win for Wynne!

As they crawled closer to their point goal and the party continued on around them, Daisy felt herself relaxing for what seemed like the first time in months. The boys had been right to suggest something like this, even if she'd been apprehensive at first. This was good. It was needed.

—

Even though Wynne disliked fear, they were glad to hear that both Daisy and Felix also felt it. It was such a solitary emotion to begin with, so to be alone in the mere experience too would make them feel a little desolate. “I guess it’s true then, if even you have been afraid once or twice, everyone is sometimes!”

Their thoughts were occupied for a moment as they pondered a large question. Eventually they just put it to words: “Are there professionals? I know about professional athletes. I just didn’t know this was also one of those sports.”

It seemed they were well matched in their mediocrity, which Wynne liked �� if one of them surpassed the others, it would become a little boring quick. They were just about to throw their last horseshoe that would be a deciding factor in their placement when their focus was disturbed with an odd smell, and then a blazing sight.

One of the barns was on fire. Their arm fell slack, horseshoe still in their hand. “Daisy …” Their other arm pointed up at the flames.

—

There was some relief in knowing that even people Felix found infallible, like Daisy, felt fear from time to time. Some days, they worried that the fluttering in their chest and the dryness of their throat that they couldn’t quite get away from marked them as a coward. After all, hadn’t they proven themself as such? Didn’t they prove it time and time again when they flinched away from silly things like raised voices or unexpected sounds? Knowing that Daisy, too, felt fear made it feel less shameful. Even knowing Wynne — who was not quite untouchable in the sense Daisy seemed to be — felt afraid sometimes offered some relief. More than anything, Felix wanted to not be alone. Here, with this game of horseshoes, they felt like they weren’t.

“There are professionals in every sport, I think!” They replied, tossing another horseshoe. Like most of their throws so far, it was pretty far off the mark. “There’s a professional cornhole league! My sister used to say she was going to be a part of it one day.”

The game went on, all of them scoring small amounts of points in a way that made it a low-scoring nail-biter. Despite this, Felix felt energized. Competition was rarely a thing they were allowed to have fun with. In the Grit Pit, it was very life or death. Here, it was low stakes. Here, they were among friends.

It was a shame such things could never last.

They smelled the smoke seconds before Wynne pointed out the flames. Fear fluttered in their chest once more, the familiarity of it doing little to soften its blow. Someone was shouting, and then someone else joined in. And then, there was a loud bang, and Felix flinched. They glanced around the party, eyes wide. “What — Who’s that?”

—

“Yeah! I bet there is!” Daisy agreed with a laugh, enjoying the thought of people taking this game really seriously with uniforms and all. She couldn’t fathom what the proper and most advantageous technique for winning would be, but that was okay. They were just here to have some fun!

The deadened sense of smell that came with zombiehood meant that Daisy had no idea anything was wrong until they realized that Wynne wasn’t throwing their last horseshoe. Her smile fell slightly into a look of amused confusion as she cocked her head at them. “What is it?” She followed Wynne’s pointing hand with her eyes, turning around to see one of the barns on fire.

Not again she thought, flinching with the rest of them as a loud bang met their ears. She was about to shout at them both to leave, but then Monty was tearing past them toward the stable, followed closely by Kaden. Feeling fear and anger fighting for dominance, Daisy was frozen in place for a moment. “We need to leave,” she finally got out, turning to look at Felix and Wynne. “Both of y’all need to leave.”

—

The smell of fire brought back memories both happy and sad, though it was the latter that took over their mind. The barn, the rituals and now this, the farm. Fire wasn’t part of the program, Wynne was certain of it, and that certainty was affirmed when they saw Daisy’s response. Their fingers clutched around the horseshoe, a bit of strong and sturdy metal that was better than their sole knuckles.

They looked around for the blonde they’d come here with but did not find her, though they did see Kaden and Monty rushing towards the stable, which was also caught on fire. “The horses!,” they exclaimed and without giving it much thought they did as Daisy said. Wynne left, tearing after the hunter and the zombie towards the stallions. They hoped that outside superstition worked in their favor and that the horseshoe in their hand would bring some luck.

#. thread ;#. with ; wynne hughes #. with ; felix mendoza #. horse those shoes ;

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loftylockjaw · 5 months ago

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TIMING: Current LOCATION: The Grit Pit PARTIES: Wyatt (@loftylockjaw) & Felix (@recoveringdreamer) SUMMARY: Wyatt and Felix play a harmless little prank on the handlers of the Pit involving the communal coffee. CONTENT WARNINGS: Unsanitary, vomit, food poisoning adjacent (none of these things are explicitly described, but are implied)

—

It was definitely one of those first world human problems, but not having a bathroom to use when you really, really needed to use one was probably on the top ten list of worst experiences. And Wyatt wanted to make sure the Pit staff was as uncomfortable as possible before they started getting dangerously ill, which would take a few doses in the coffee. For now, let them think that there was a bug going around.

The pair had dropped whole rolls of toilet paper in each toilet in the whole building, flushing again and again until they were good and clogged. On the ones that didn’t look visibly fucked, they stretched plastic wrap over the seats to hopefully really ruin someone’s day if they thought they were in the clear. It was kind of a gross task, but with the promise of an eventful morning, Wyatt wasn’t too upset about it. He hoped Felix wasn’t either, because it was gonna be funny.

After one of the early risers came in and started up the staff coffee pots in the break room, Wyatt and Felix snuck in and put some laxatives in the pots, and Wyatt dosed them very slightly with some antifreeze he’d put into an innocuous shampoo bottle that he’d left in the locker room. If they were lucky, anyone who drank this coffee would be incapacitated by lunch. Maybe they’d even have to cancel tonight’s matches!

—

In the beginning, the acts of rebellion that Felix partook in were impossible to miss. They’d skip shifts, they’d refuse to fight, they’d dig their heels into the ground when their handlers tried to push them into the ring. But those never ended well. The confines of the contract made large rebellions like that physically painful, something Felix had learned the hard way over and over again at the start. They remembered Leo, an expression of concern etched across his face, putting a hand on their shoulder in the locker rooms. You’re going to get yourself killed, babe. Just do what you’re supposed to do, and it’ll be way easier. Their stomach had churned with the softness of his tones, a thing still so much more confusing in the months that had immediately followed Leo’s betrayal and their breakup.

Worse still had been knowing that Leo was right. When they’d accepted their fate and stopped with those large, pointless rebellious acts, things had gotten easier. There’d been less pain, less retaliation from the other handlers. They ached, still, but in a different kind of way. But they’d never stopped rebelling entirely, either. The acts got smaller — less refusing to fight, more refusing to fight dirty. They’d slowed over time, though, the monotony of life in the Pit making it all seem pointless.

And then, Samir died.

It still haunted them, even now. They could still hear the crack of his neck, still see the blood on the ground. They tried not to think about it too much, tried not to let themself remember the way they’d finally thrown out the food he’d left in their fridge, the way they’d scrubbed the tupperware containers until their fingers were pruny and their hands were shaking, the way they still didn’t know what to do with them now that they were empty. Moving on after something like that seemed so impossible, and Felix had no idea what Samir would want them to do. They wanted to do something, wanted to make his death matter somehow. Rebelling more against the people who’d killed him seemed… like the first step, really. Like a no-brainer, like a natural progression. They still couldn’t do big things, but they could turn up the small ones. They could team up with Wyatt and pretend it made either of them feel better.

They stretched the clear plastic wrap over the last of the toilet seats, making a face at the smell. “That should do it,” they announced, turning to the lamia. “Uh, how long do you think it’ll be before…” They trailed off, glancing to the bathroom door.

—

“Oh… I’d give it a couple hours, minimum,” Wyatt answered, admiring their handiwork with a… grimace. It was all he could manage, really, considering how many toilets they’d just had to touch. And the thoughts of what was to come did little to make him feel any less grossed out, but it was what it was. Moving over to the row of sinks to wash his hands and regather their materials, Wyatt led the way back to the locker rooms and stashed the roll of cling wrap in an open, unused locker, so as to not tie it back to anyone. All that was left to do was wait, and try to appear as innocent and surprised as the rest of them.

Training would be the easiest way to keep an eye on the upper management of the Pit without appearing suspicious, so Wyatt and Felix headed for the shitty in-house gym. Thankfully they weren’t the only fighters there, the others likely taking advantage of the cooler mornings seeing as how the room was barely air conditioned.

Still though, the distance that had always existed between Wyatt and the other fighters seemed to widen as he entered the gym, and not just physically. He was given a lot of narrow-eyed stares, his ‘undefeated’ title no longer the only thing giving them reason to dislike him. He’d killed one of them, and while most of the fighters here couldn’t claim to be friends, they did recognize that the threat was very much still present for any of them that might be pitted against him in the future. Now, Wyatt knew he was only going to be fighting beasts for the foreseeable future, but no one else knew that, and he wasn’t going to be the one to try and explain it to them. Let them hate him, let them be afraid, it didn’t really matter. He’d already made the fatal error of befriending fighters here, and while he wasn’t about to turn his back on Felix, he was absolutely unwilling to ever extend that olive branch to anyone else. Living with the weight of Samir’s death hurt too much, far outweighing the benefits of more Pit fighter friends.

So the balam and lamia were set apart from the rest, and Wyatt felt a little guilty about it. He didn’t mean to ostracize Felix too just by knowing them, but it’d happened nonetheless. He kept his gaze down, trying to ignore the proverbial daggers in his back as he faced away from the other fighters, shaking his head as he faced off with a punching bag. Focus on why we’re really here, Barlow. The chaos would start quietly to be sure, but it wouldn’t be long before they heard panicked shouts of confusion and disgust.

—

A couple hours. It made very little difference to Felix, who didn’t really have anyplace else to go, anyway. After all, the boiler room wasn’t the sort of place they wanted to hang out in, especially not when they didn’t have a choice but to be there at night. They couldn’t really go find someone to hang out with outside the Pit to wait for the fighting hours to begin, either; they were always a little too on edge when they knew a fight was coming, and the fact that they now carried the extra weight of knowing what they and Wyatt had set up made them a bundle of nervous energy even more anxious than their usual fare, which was certainly saying something. Besides, they didn’t want to be gone when things started getting… crappy for the handlers. The best part of a prank was supposed to be witnessing the results of it, right?

So there was no argument from the balam as they followed Wyatt into the training room. Training at the Grit Pit was a silly thing for Felix, for the most part. When they fought, it was rarely as themself. Since Leo tightened his hold on their reins, it was even rarer for Felix to be the one in control when he was thrust into the ring. The jaguar needed no training; he acted on instinct alone. But Felix held the bag as Wyatt punched it, anyway.

They weren’t unaware of the looks Wyatt was getting. In all honesty, Felix had never been the most popular fighter in the Grit Pit, even before their friendship with Wyatt soured everyone’s views on them. Leo tended to get angry when Felix branched out, and while it was easy to keep their ex from seeing that they had friends outside the Pit, it was harder to hide the ones they had within it. More often than not, being friendly with Felix would earn a fighter unwanted attention from Leo and his friends, and they’d find themselves shoved into more difficult matchups for less money. That was enough to turn most off the idea of befriending the balam who, in all fairness, was difficult to befriend without the added complications. Most of the fighters here only ever wanted to make their own lives easier, wanted to control the only thing they were capable of controlling. Felix couldn’t fault any of them for that.

“So, uh…” They struggled to find something to talk about, the silence making them antsy. If they weren’t careful, someone would pick up on the fact that they were hiding something, and the what would become obvious as soon as the results of the prank began rippling through the handlers. “Do you… watch… sports?” They winced at the awkwardness of the question. “I don’t. Watch sports, I mean. So if you watch sports, I don’t really have any followup questions?”

—

It was hard not to be charmed by Felix’s awkward nature. Not that Wyatt wanted to turn that part of himself off, but here, in view of all the other fighters who avoided or disliked either or both of them for a whole slew of reasons… perhaps it was better not to laugh at Felix’s question. Or maybe it was better to laugh. Fuck those other fighters, anyway. And fuck Leo. Leo couldn’t do any worse to him than he was already doing to himself, he figured. If he could, he would have already. So Wyatt just chuckled, shaking his head at the same time that he shook out both hands, smiling at his friend.

“Well you’re in luck, cher, ‘cuz I don’t watch ‘em either. They’re borin’, mostly. Professional wrestlin’ can be fun, so long as you look at it like a performance and not really a sport. Since it’s all staged.” Quite the opposite of what they did here, which was the only reason he could enjoy it these days. “Weird characters…. heroes, villains, the works. It’s bizarre, but I get a kick out of it.”

He turned his head when he heard a throaty groan coming from somewhere behind them. One of the other fighters, Blacktooh (Dillon was his real name, maybe) was leaning heavily on the rack of hand weights, doubled over and sounding like he was in pain. Wyatt just watched as some other fighters hurried up to him, one in particular: Sasha, known to fans as Songbird. She grabbed his arm and ducked down to get a good look at his face.

“Dillon, are you okay?” she asked, the worry clear in her tone. Wyatt glanced back at Felix, doing everything he could to keep his expression even. But he did not have a good feeling about this….

—

Wyatt laughed, and though Felix hadn’t intended the question to be a joke, they felt some of the tension melt from their shoulders at the sound, anyway. In a place like the Grit Pit, it could be easy to fall into the trap of despair and grief that came with the nature of the work done there. Felix was fairly certain that the people in charge would prefer the fighters feel that way, since it certainly made them easier to control. But in moments like this one, when a fight was promised but not yet occurring and their friend’s laughter echoed in the small space between them, it was a lot easier for Felix to ignore the doom and gloom and focus on the few bright spots that had come from his employment. Wyatt, in spite of everything, was one of those bright spots.

“Like WWE?” Felix perked up a little at the mention, eyes brightening. “We used to love that, me and my siblings. I mean, until we weren’t allowed to watch it anymore. My sister tried to copy one of the moves someone did and broke my other sister’s leg, you know, and my mom was like, ‘you guys can’t watch this stuff anymore,’ even though we already knew all the moves by then, anyway. But it was cool. Definitely more of a performance than a sport, though, you’re right.” There was something almost relieving about watching it and knowing it was all fake, in contrast to the Grit Pit which was anything but. Felix opened their mouth, ready to grill Wyatt on his favorite wrestlers, both current and past, but was interrupted by the sound of a groan from behind them.

Turning towards the sound, Felix’s brow furrowed at the way Dillon doubled over. Sasha was speaking to him, and Dillon’s breath came quick and sharp. Uncertain, Felix took a step towards the growing crowd. The other fighters paid them little mind, focused on Dillon. “I think something’s wrong,” Dillon’s voice was slurred, his eyes distant. Felix glanced towards Wyatt, eyes wide.

—

Something was wrong, alright. Dillon, the fuckin’ idiot, had obviously stolen coffee from the handler's break room. This had always been a possibility, of course, but Wyatt had decided that the pros outweighed the cons. You had to crack a few eggs, after all.

He could pipe up and suggest they get him to the vet's clinic where that crotchety old one-legged doctor often tended to Pit fighters, but he didn't know if Masami would be able to figure out what had poisoned Dillon, and he didn't really want him to know. Besides, trying to get any of them to commit to driving him there would probably be a task unto itself. Pretty much everyone here only looked out for themselves unless otherwise instructed by a handler or Corinna.

Looked like Dillon might be shit out of luck.

Wyatt moved up to Felix, speaking under his breath. “You're surprised. But not scared,” he told the other gently, his gaze focused over Felix’s shoulder on the fighter now collapsing to the floor and retching. Some of the others were backing away now, perhaps wanting to avoid catching something contagious, and Wyatt took the opportunity to pull Felix farther away as well.

That was when they heard it — up the hall, a shrill scream coming from the direction of the handler's break room. Either someone in there was extremely squeamish, or another person had collapsed. This was working a lot faster than Wyatt had guessed, and he had to truly fight to keep the smile from spreading across his face.

—

The realization washed over them all at once, like a bucket of ice water poured over their head. Dillon had asked once, when Felix was enjoying a cup of coffee that didn’t look like tar, where they’d gotten it. It was less friendly conversation, more the desperation of a hungover man who knew he’d be expected to perform in a high-stakes fight later in the day. Felix had clung to the idea of camaraderie all the same, sharing in a conspiratorial whisper that he’d stolen the coffee from the handlers’ break room. They’d known Dillon had taken their strategy for himself that day, but they hadn’t considered whether or not he might have continued the habit afterwards.

Clearly, he had.

Felix took another step towards Dillon, wondering what could be done. If they offered help, would it be accepted? Would the other fighters, including Dillon, be willing to set aside all the reasons why they avoided Felix to let them lend a helping hand to… what? Get Dillon to a doctor, admit that they knew what was wrong with him so it might be resolved? Doing so would necessitate swearing Dillon to secrecy, and they weren’t sure he’d be willing to comply. If the handlers found out Felix and Wyatt had done this…

Gentle hands pulled them away just as Dillon began convulsing. Felix tried to take another step forward, but it was a weak attempt. “Wyatt,” they said lowly, afraid to say much more than that. They were in a room full of shifters; no matter how quietly you spoke, odds of being overheard by someone with supernaturally sharp hearing was more or less a guarantee.

The screams from the break room startled the crowd of fighters, who exchanged uncertain looks among themselves. But Felix couldn’t take their eyes off Dillon, laying in a heap on the floor. They had to do something, didn’t they? It was their fault that he was like this. “Someone needs to get him to a doctor,” they said, pleading. None of the other fighters looked their way. “Wyatt, we need to — We have to help him.”

The door to the training room slammed open, one of the handlers standing in the opening. He glanced around the room, eyes landing on Dillon with an expression that spoke more of apathy than it did sympathy. “What the hell is going on?” Sasha demanded. The handler looked her way with a sharp expression.

“Problems in the break room,” he replied flatly. “And none of you are going anywhere until we figure out why.”

“Blacktooth needs a doctor,” Felix said, flinching when the statement turned the handler’s attention towards them.

“That’s Blacktooth’s problem. I’m locking this door. Anyone who tries to go is working double shifts for the next three months.”

—

Perhaps he'd used more antifreeze than he should've. It was just supposed to cause stomach aches, some gastrointestinal distress… he hadn't meant to kill anyone. Not yet, anyway. Not that Dillon was dead, though he was writhing on the ground and moaning in agony. Wyatt tried not to let it bother him, focusing less on the fact that a fighter was suffering needlessly and more so that it meant that the handlers, who had probably had more of the tainted coffee, were suffering even worse.

“We can't,” Wyatt answered his friend, even before a handler slammed the door open. The lamia’s gaze jumped from Dillon to Sasha to the handler to Felix, who looked absolutely terrified. Wyatt just hoped no one else in here took that to mean guilt.

“Felix,” Wyatt warned, falling silent again as the other fighters broke out into an uproar. The handler shut the door again, and they all heard the heavy click of the lock being engaged. Wyatt’s heart was racing—while he didn't exactly fear cages, he'd grown more intimately familiar with them in the last few months, and always found their comfort to be lacking. Plus this time he was locked in here with his friend and a bunch of people that disliked both of them. If they were going to make it out of this without being accused of anything, they needed to make sure they matched the confused, angry energy of their peers. Or so he assumed. He didn't think Felix could convincingly fake being angry, but confused? Definitely.

Over the din of outraged fighters, Wyatt could hear footsteps running up and down the hall on the other side of the door. There was shouting, and plenty of sounds that indicated that the whole ‘bathroom’ aspect of this prank was working as intended. Dillon seemed to have lapsed into unconsciousness, though he still appeared to be breathing. Wyatt felt… uncomfortable. Maybe this hadn't been the best idea.

… no. No, the people who ran this place had it fucking coming.

—

We can’t. Felix felt sick at the certainty in Wyatt’s tone, the way he said it. This was their fault. They had done this, and now Dillon was writhing on the floor. Felix didn’t care much about the handlers and the upper management in the Grit Pit — those people, they thought with an uncharacteristic bitterness, deserved what they got. But Dillon? He was in the same boat as the rest of them. He probably didn’t want to be here any more than Felix did, was probably bound to his word without knowing it years ago. Felix didn’t want to see him hurt.

The door shut, the lock sliding into place with a heavy echo, and Felix felt the same panic that rippled through the rest of the fighters. Someone ran to the door, pounding fists against it uselessly. Sasha crouched beside Dillon, cradling his head and murmuring something too low for Felix to hear. And Dillon was utterly still, his breathing present but uneven.

Looking up at Wyatt, Felix shook their head. “Wyatt,” they said lowly. “We — I can’t just stand here and do nothing. He’s — Look at him. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t supposed to be us. It was supposed to be them. Maybe, if we tell the other fighters what happened…” Then what? They’d all come together and help each other? Felix knew that wasn’t the way the Grit Pit worked. Most of the fighters here would gladly rat Felix and Wyatt out to save their own skin.

“I can tell them it was all me,” they said quietly. “I can take the blame, and — and they can get Dillon some help, and he’ll be fine. It’s not like they’ll kill me.” Wildcat brought in too much money to justify any permanent damage to Felix, didn’t he? And what could they possibly do to make their life worse? They were already living in the Grit Pit. They knew they had far less to lose than Wyatt did, particularly after what happened with Razor. “We can — This can still be okay. Right?”

—

The suggestion that Felix would take all the blame made Wyatt feel just about as sick to his stomach as Dillon apparently had, and he immediately started to shake his head. “No,” he hissed, “no, you ain’t doin’ that.” His panic was growing, fear that Felix would try to shoulder this whole thing which had been the opposite of their intent. Dillon was an unfortunate casualty of this act of rebellion, but he wasn’t going to let that get in the way. He’d do whatever it took to ensure their safety. Even if that meant throwing someone else under the bus. It wasn’t like the other fighters wouldn’t do the same thing to them, given half a chance. “It’s okay, cher. I got a plan. Just trust me, yeah?” He was speaking quickly and quietly, putting himself between Felix and the others, calculating his next moves in his head. All he needed was for one of the handlers to come back, if any of them were still capable.

Right on cue, they all heard the latch on the door release. The fighters that had moved up toward it stepped quickly back, confronted with the furious gaze of Agnes. Right. She was a tea drinker, Wyatt had forgotten. Fuck. … well, maybe this could work in his favor. Her eyes raked over the crowd of fighters, settling on Wyatt and Felix who were separated from the rest. Her lips curled into a frown, her brows knitted in the center. “Who did this?!” she snarled. Everyone looked dumbfounded, unsure what she was talking about, except for Wyatt. Her attention zeroed in on him and she barked out another venomous command. “Tell me, Lockjaw. Did you do this?”

He couldn’t play dumb. That wouldn’t be the move. But he still shook his head no, doing his absolute best to appear like he was hiding something. Protecting someone. Which was easy enough because he fucking was, it just wasn’t the person he was going to pretend it was. Agnes seemed to buy it, staring daggers into him. “Then who?” she asked.

Wyatt glanced around the room, his attention briefly captured by Dillon on the floor… and Sasha, holding him in a way that perhaps hinted at more compassion than any of the other fighters showed one another. That was his scapegoat. He pointed at the female fighter, keeping his mouth shut. Sasha didn’t even notice at first, distracted by the man maybe-dying in her arms. Agnes shrieked her name and the fighter snapped to attention, staring up at the handler with tears in her eyes. “Songbird! Lockjaw seems to think you had something to do with this,” she challenged Sasha, whose eyes widened.

“What?!” She snapped her head to the side to stare at Wyatt with a look of pure hatred. The rest of the fighters backed away farther, not wanting to get caught in the middle of an altercation. “No I fucking didn’t!” Agnes looked again to Wyatt.

“Are you lying to me? Did you poison the staff?” The lamia shook his head again, contorting his expression into one of fear.

“Agnes… I wouldn’t do that to you. I… I know you been protectin’ me,” he pleaded. Half of that statement was true — his handler had fought for his continued existence, though that didn’t mean he was above poisoning her, too. He didn’t know what would happen if the holder of his contract died, but that really hadn’t been the intention here. They were just supposed to get sick. The fae sucked in a long breath, her gaze dancing between the two of them. “It was her. I saw her sneakin’ outta y’all’s break room this morning,” Wyatt elaborated. “Just thought she was stealin’ coffee, but if that’s where the problem is comin’ from…”

—

Wyatt had a plan and, desperately, Felix wanted to trust him. It was only partially because it was Wyatt who was saying it, only partially because the lamia was the only friend they had left in this place and they knew they wouldn’t be making any others. Felix had always had a tendency towards looking to other people for solutions. They’d spent years letting their father and their siblings make all the hard calls and pretending it made them less guilty for the results of those calls, closed their eyes to the unsavory parts of Leo because having someone who would make their choices for them felt better than having to make those choices alone, even when Leo chose things that hurt. In the Grit Pit, they fought back in small ways, but they didn’t think there was anything brave about it. They’d rather have someone else making the hard decisions. Wyatt had a plan, and Felix wanted the plan to be good, so they nodded.

They tensed as the door opened, looking away as Agnes scanned the room. It was only Wyatt’s reassurances that he could handle things that prevented Felix from stepping forward to confess, though his gaze slipped over to Dillon a few times in concern. Wyatt’s plan would help him, too, wouldn’t it? He wouldn’t leave Dillon to rot, wouldn’t let him die from something that was only supposed to hurt the people who deserved it.

Agnes seemed to zero in on Wyatt right away, and Felix shifted their weight between their feet nervously beside him. If Agnes asked them what had happened, would they have had the resolve to lie? In this moment, they weren’t sure. They wanted, more than anything, for Dillon to be okay. They might have done something stupid to ensure that, might have interrupted Wyatt’s plan.

But… when Wyatt’s plan became clearer, the pool of dread in Felix’s stomach only deepened. His finger leveled at Sasha in a silent accusation, and Felix shook their head quickly, but Agnes was no longer looking at them. Her attention was solely focused on Sasha now, rage bubbling over like a boiling pot as she shrieked. Felix’s hand shot out, grabbing Wyatt’s arm and pulling it down as if the damage wasn’t already done, as if there was any undoing it. If they confessed now, would it change anything? Would they be believed?

And, if they did contradict Wyatt, what would it mean for him? He’d just lied directly to his handler’s face. Felix knew there were consequences for that sort of thing, knew Wyatt was already in hot water after what happened to Samir. The lamia had placed them in an impossible situation here: either they could confess and damn both themself and Wyatt if they were believed, or they could say nothing and damn Sasha. They glanced around, trying to see if anyone else would discredit Wyatt’s statement, but the rest of the fighters were quiet. For the most part, so long as they weren’t the ones on the line, they were happy to let someone else take the fall.

—

Agnes seemed to be pondering the options in her mind. On the one hand, if Lockjaw had been the one to do this, that would reflect poorly on her. Also, she’d lose a pretty significant percentage of her pay that she might not make up with whatever replacement came long. Her position as handler for the undefeated champion fighter in the Pit was one that the other handlers envied, and she doubted she’d be afforded a second opportunity to manage another one like Lockjaw with something like this having happened on her watch. The fact that it was a possibility pissed her off enough as it was, but she did find it interesting that the coffee was what had been spiked, and it was known that she never touched the stuff.

The fighter spoke true. She had defended him, multiple times now, and he surely wouldn’t be foolish enough to try and kill the holder of his contract, would he? While no specifics had ever been given, he had to know that was bad. That it would not end in his favor. So he’d either chosen a way to ‘fight back’ at the establishment that still spared his own future, or he had done nothing at all, and Songbird was the true inciter of chaos.

It seemed that either way, it was in her best interest to believe her pit dog. So she did, giving him a slow, thoughtful nod. Her gaze turned fully to Sasha, who looked terrified. The room had fallen silent save for the sounds of the other handlers suffering in the background. Agnes sucked in a long breath through her nose, letting the tension bleed out of her posture, her shoulders relaxing.

“Songbird,” she began bitterly, “it’s clear to me that you’re experiencing guilt for accidentally poisoning your fellow fighter.” Sasha just sobbed, shaking her head, but she couldn’t get a word in edgewise as Agnes continued. “You will be reassigned to fight Lockjaw later this week, and you may settle the matter amongst yourselves.” Agnes looked over at Lockjaw, who had remained obediently silent. Wildcat was standing beside him, looking… terribly upset. Then again, they always looked upset, so that wasn’t much of a surprise. Still, she wondered if it was guilt. If the pair had, for whatever reason, orchestrated this whole thing. It wasn’t impossible, but she’d already said her piece, and she only stood to benefit from covering Lockjaw’s tracks for him. Lucky him.

—

There was no hope that Agnes would be merciful. Felix wasn’t sure such a thing as mercy existed in the Grit Pit at all, but they knew it didn’t exist between handlers and the fighters they oversaw. It had become clear to them early on in their career as a fighter that the handlers didn’t quite see the fighters as people, that they were little more than opportunities towards wealth. None of the handlers cared that Felix was bound to a man they’d once loved; none of them seemed to mind just how distorted the relationship was, just how sinister Leo could be. None of them cared when fighters were hurt, or when they died. Samir’s death had been less significant than the handler who’d been killed trying to subdue Lockjaw after the fact, and Felix had always had a sinking feeling that some of the fighters Wildcat went up against didn’t come back not because their losses released them from their contracts, but because it was impossible for them to return.

Whatever punishment Agnes laid down on Sasha, it wouldn’t be a kind one. And it wouldn’t be a deserved one, either.

Felix shot Wyatt another look, begging him to reconsider. But what was the alternative? They didn’t want Wyatt to be hurt, either, didn’t want him to suffer for something that had really been Felix’s idea. They felt just as trapped in this moment as they had when Leo first revealed his true nature to them, or when he’d bound them to the boiler room as punishment. Sasha was sobbing, and Dillon was so still that Felix no longer thought there was much hope in getting him to a doctor.

The punishment was doled out quickly, and Felix shook their head. This wasn’t fair. “No,” they said, taking a step forward. “That’s not — She didn’t — You’ve got it wrong. Wya– Lockjaw made a mistake. He was — It wasn’t Songbird. He just — He thought he saw her, you know? But it was — It was me. It’s my fault. Don’t — Songbird didn’t do anything.” It was a pathetic, stammering confession, and they knew even as they said it that it was too late. Agnes couldn’t go back on her decision now without looking like the sort of person who could bend, and no handler would allow themselves to be viewed in such a way. The only thing the confession really achieved was to earn Felix a few sharp glares from the other fighters. Agnes might pretend not to believe them, but their fellow fighters clearly knew they were being honest. Attempting to save Sasha wouldn’t gain them any points among their peers.

—

Wyatt sucked in a sharp breath when Felix stepped forward and tried to claim responsibility for the whole thing, biting back the urge to hiss at them to shut up. This was going their way, why did they have to be so morally upstanding about it? But he remained still, narrowing his eyes at his friend and shaking his head.

Agnes sighed, waving a dismissive hand in Felix’s direction. “Please,” she scolded them. “I know you're desperate to protect people and make friends, but your self-sacrifice isn't needed here. I know the truth.” Her gaze lingered on Wyatt briefly before she strode purposefully forward toward Dillon and Sasha. The rest of the fighters scattered deeper into the room, leaving the two on the floor on their own. Agnes squatted down, pressing two fingers against Dillon’s throat and staring Sasha down as she searched for a pulse. Sasha kept her head bowed, unable to stop the way she trembled from a combination of fear and anger. She felt ready to rip Wyatt a new one here and now, ready to sink her fangs into that stupid bastard's throat, but she had to wait. She knew if she acted too soon, it would entirely remove any chance of her making it out of this alive.

Agnes pulled her hand back and stood up again. “Since Blacktooth is dead, you're going to be standing in for his fight assignments as well,” she said to Sasha coldly. “And Lockjaw… take this corpse to the cages and find an undead friend to feed it to. They should be unaffected by the poison.” She gave him another hard look, and he knew she wasn't really fooled. His stomach was in knots but he just nodded, moving forward to the dead bugbear and the siren he'd blamed for it. Sasha allowed him to pry Dillon from her grasp but not without sneaking a few biting words in.

“I'm gonna make you wish you'd just fessed up,” she spat. “Hope this was fucking worth it.”

Wyatt met her gaze and the slightest hint of a smirk spread across his lips. “It was,” he whispered back, hoisting the body up and over his shoulder. Without another word, he turned and headed for the door that Agnes was standing beside, his attention drawn over to Felix for a moment. Agnes followed his gaze, planning on keeping the rest of them locked in here until Corinna gave her more direction, but she'd rather not piss Leo off by letting his charge suffer needlessly at the hands of a bunch of angry fighters.

“Wildcat, you too,” she commanded sharply. “The rest of you are staying put.”

—

They knew even before they spoke that it wouldn’t change anything. Agnes’s mind was made up the moment Wyatt gave her an easy answer to fall back on, and nothing Felix said could change that. Wildcat and Lockjaw were big moneymakers for the Pit; Songbird and Blacktooth less so. Still, their heart sank as Agnes dismissed their attempt at honesty, their throat tight as she checked Dillon for a pulse. It was clear that she didn’t find one, and Sasha’s grief was as palpable as the guilt tearing a hole in Felix’s chest. The confirmation that Dillon was dead hit Felix like a physical thing, and they flinched back as if trying to avoid a blow. It wasn’t supposed to go this way, they wanted to tell Sasha, who was glaring daggers in their direction (and Wyatt’s) now. No one was supposed to get hurt except the people who deserve it, the people who did this to us. But how much did it matter? What could their good intentions give to Sasha, now bearing the brunt of their mistakes? What could they give Dillon, dead on the floor?

They wished Wyatt hadn’t pushed it onto Sasha. They wished he’d listened to them, given them a chance to take on the blame for themself. Their life couldn’t be made any worse, but Sasha’s could. They hadn’t wanted Wyatt’s protection now any more than they had when he’d tried to step in and talk to Leo on their behalf. They wanted to be angry with him, but… that didn’t seem fair, either. Wyatt was trying to protect Felix, was still reeling after the loss of Samir, was in a bad headspace after months of endless nightmares. Felix should have reeled him in sooner, should have insisted upon a less dangerous prank. If anyone was to blame here, it was them. Felix had had a responsibility to stop things before they got this far, and they hadn’t honored it. Didn’t that make everything that happened after more their fault than Wyatt’s?

Wyatt threw Dillon’s body over his shoulder as Sasha spat vitriol in his face, and Felix watched him move towards the door. Their heart was still pounding, their throat still tight. Their chest ached, and they didn’t know what they wanted but they knew it wasn’t this. Agnes was speaking to them, and it took a moment to register. They wanted to protest, wanted to say that Wyatt didn’t need their help, but arguing with handlers rarely ended well for anyone involved, so they only shuffled forward with a shrug.

As they passed Sasha, they tried to mutter an apology, but nothing came out. It was just as well, really. No apology could make up for what had happened here today, what would happen in the near future. Dillon was dead and, given the punishment Sasha had been handed and Wyatt’s recent struggles with control, Sasha would probably be dead soon, too. They wondered if Wyatt would struggle with that the same way he struggled with what had happened to Samir; they wondered how anyone couldn’t.

They stumbled through the door, trailing behind Wyatt with heavy footfalls. In the distance, they could still hear the commotion of the handlers dealing with the aftereffects of their prank. It didn’t feel nearly as good as they’d thought it would.

#. thread ;#. with ; felix mendoza #unsanitary tw #vomiting tw #food poisoning tw #. punk'd ;

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