The past two nights were – as was par for the course – blurs. Every morning had come with a thick envelope though, as well as some painkillers and a drink with electrolytes. Samir wanted it to be over already — his go against Mayhem, a fellow werewolf, the night before had left him in worse shape than he would have liked. Though part of the damage had been healed during the full moon the night before, there were aches everywhere in his body and perhaps worse, a growing worry.

He was already sat near his cage when the source of that worry appeared. Samir pulled his robe a little closer around him, hating how soft the Grit Pit-brand thing felt. He looked at Felix as he approached, not quite knowing if he regretted getting to know the other over the past weeks but knowing that it posed a problem. Especially if they were going to have pre-match conversations. It wasn’t like Felix was fighting him after all.

“Hey man,” he said, however, nodding his head in greeting. The words were clipped and short, because he didn’t want this conversation. Besides, he felt ugly, near the cage. Restless, with the moon nearing the point where it would get to him. Samir didn’t know what to say. “What’s … up?”

—

They’d been given a few days off. It wasn’t a kindness, even if Leo had presented it as one when he’d delivered the news. Felix understood what it was for, could feel the intent behind it. They’d been given a few days off the ensure they’d be in top shape for this week’s big fight — so they could put on a better show. A bloodbath didn’t inspire nearly as many big bets as a decently matched fight would, after all.

So, all things considered, Felix was more well-rested than usual as he arrived at the Pit. He tensed as someone greeted him with a sneer; one of Leo’s friends, if he remembered right. “Here’s puppy chow now,” he cooed. Felix glowered, shoving by him. They needed to go — somewhere else to wait. Somewhere with someone they could stand.

Their feet led the way without their mind putting much thought into it. Samir had mentioned his wolf being out of control on a good month, so Felix figured they’d find him in the cages. Sure enough, the werewolf’s familiar form was hunched in front of one when the balam entered. They sighed, relieved, somehow, to see the man who’d probably take a few chunks out of them in a couple hours. “Hey,” they greeted, coming over and sitting in the floor, drawing their knees up to their chest. “Sorry. I’ll get out of your hair soon. Just wanted to take a minute to, um… Tell you good luck? Tonight. With the…” They gestured between the two of them vaguely. “Thing.”

—

This was wrong. Samir had made careful and dedicated work out of avoiding interpersonal relationships with all people at the Grit Pit. From the bookies to the cleaners to the security to, most especially, his other fighters. There was his contact person, Travis, who talked to him about the money. There was Mikey (a woman), who had been his in into the Pit, who seemed to be very good at gauging how he felt. There was Chrissy, who did something with communications – because in this day and age, even an underground, magical MMA club needed social media – and gave him stuff to put online. That was it.

And now there was Felix. Who he had invited into his home, who he had shown care for, who he had kept in contact with. Who he’d known he would have to fight again and who, now, was going to give the fight of the month with him. Samir thought it perverse, in a way, to sit here talking with them and have to listen to them wishing him luck. As if Samir had any say in what was to go down in a matter of hours. 

This was why it was wrong: usually he could let it go. He’d built himself a way of life here, where three nights a week he belonged to the Grit Pit and in return for whatever violence he gave them, he got an ignorant conscience. But here was Felix, who he knew. Who he figured – perhaps arrogantly – would be in tough shape tomorrow. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Ignorance didn’t work if there was a face, a name, a nervous habit of the other he was already starting to pick up on. “It’s not really gonna be me out there, but.” He shook his head, as if that would relinquish some of the tenseness. “Appreciated. And you too.” 

—

It’s not really gonna be me out there. Not for the first time, Felix felt a hint of jealousy for the werewolf. Even when they were more jaguar than themself, they were still responsible for what happened in the Pit. They’d never gone ‘full jaguar’ in a fight before, never lost so much of themself that they could blame the animal for the blood on their hands. Samir got that every month, got the separation, got to forget. And it was cruel, they knew, to be jealous. It was wrong, it was unfair. Samir, they knew, would like to not have this in his life, would like to be someone else or something else, but Felix wanted to be more like him. Felix wanted that separation.

But that wasn’t meant for them. They knew that. They were what they were, and they did what they did. They’d do it again tonight, with the man in front of him now; the man who’d helped them after the shit with the warden, the man who’d patched them up after the Pit punished them for their absence by making them enter into fight after fight after fight. Samir had been nothing but kind to them, and they were going to tear each other apart in a few hours. There was something unnatural about that.

“Yeah,” they smiled, though it was a wary thing. “We can get breakfast tomorrow.” If we’re both still alive, they added silently. Maybe that was dramatic. They’d fought one another before without anyone dying for it, and even with the full moon the way it was, Felix figured they could manage it again tonight. If we can both walk, might have been better. If we’re both well enough to go to a diner without terrifying everyone. Right. “Uh, I guess… I’ll see you out there, huh?”

—-

The past five years had been solitary. Lonely, even. Samir had uprooted his existence time and time again, dragging himself and his tired body up the coast from Florida to Maine. There had been quick friendships, but none that had been able to exist long due to his inability to stay somewhere long. Wicked’s Rest was the first place where he’d been able to stick a while, so this was natural. A natural mistake to make: to find someone who was friendly and befriend them. It wasn’t something he held against himself, even if he thought it might be better to cut it out.

“Yeah. Maybe we can do that,” he said, though he intended to slip out of his cage, collect his winnings and go home. Samir was afraid of the morning. Two nights prior, he’d apparently gone through quite a few supernatural beasts. Mayhem – whose human name he didn’t know and who didn’t know his in return – hadn’t looked very well when he’d gotten out of his own cage and he’d still been sleeping. Who knew what he’d do to Felix? What Felix would have to do in return? These weren’t questions he should be asking himself — he had allowed himself ignorance, and yet. “See you out there.” That there was nothing factual about that, he kept to himself.

He watched Felix leave, chewing the inside of his cheek with anger directed at no one but his stupid self. A flat hand met the corner of the cage before he pressed his forehead against the cool metal. Soon enough it was time to get in. It was dehumanizing, in a sense, but so was the entire transformation — in a literal sense. It went how it always went, with rage and struggle, as if Samir was still trying to refuse his wolf from coming out, as if he still thought that fighting against it would work. But at the end of it, the wolf was stronger, and roared once it was fully there, making his presence known with a high-pitched howl.

—

Their face fell a little at Samir’s response, though they tried not to let it show. It was unfair, really, to expect enthusiasm from Samir considering the task that lay ahead of them both. They had a fight to get to; thinking of anything beyond that was… like counting chickens before they hatched. It was presumptuous in the kind of way that would only ever lead to heartache. Tomorrow, if they were both well enough to do so, maybe they’d get breakfast. Or maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe whatever friendship Felix thought they’d been building didn’t exist outside of their head.

(A voice in their head, the one that sounded suspiciously like Leo and reminded them just how the world really worked, whispered that Samir had probably only ever spoken to them in the first place out of pity. You dumped on him about a hunter and your issues with the Pit pretty much right away. Of course he was nice to you — you’re so pathetic, he must have felt bad, it said, and Felix tried to shake it from his head. It wasn’t fair to think of Samir that way.)

“See you out there,” they mumbled, then turned and left. Samir had to shift, and Felix had to prepare for the fight. Granted, their preparations were pretty minimal. Change into the Grit Pit-sanctioned fighting uniform — a pair of white shorts and tennis shoes, with no shirt. It really makes the blood pop, someone had told them once. The crowd likes that. And… that was about it. They were led out to the ring, left alone in the hallway with a locked door behind them and a closed one in front of them. The announcer’s voice droned from the speakers, announcing the fighters and revving up the crowd. Felix rubbed at the back of their neck, shifting their claws and their eyes and their ears. Just the minimum for now, though the strangeness that had been filling the town lately made the jaguar shove at the edge of their consciousness, more present than he usually was. 

The announcer fell silent. The crowd roared. The door in front of them buzzed, then opened. On to the fight. 

—

The wolf woke in his cage again. He was starting to become a creature of condition, instincts honed to know what certain things the humans did meant. If the wolf were to forget, the stun batons were there to guide him the right way — making him quick to remember his conditioning. But tonight it was a blur in the canine’s mind, as everything seems to be about one instinct only: rage. He slammed against the confines of his cage, baring his teeth to the staff and security, longing for the feeling of a forest ground beneath his paws.

In stead came the same thing that had been coming the past full moons: the cage was opened, the collar slid around his neck and he was forced to the corridor that would eventually open to reveal the pit. Razor didn’t understand what was being said around him, but he knew the jolts that followed his attempts to snap at the people speaking. Silent, they ought to be silent when he was out — but he couldn’t even form that desire in his mind.

He stood upright before the door, clawing at it until it burst open and then the wolf was out, running in on four legs, growling at all the faces that observed it. He hated them. The sound made it hard for him to hear the way he should. He threw himself at the wire that surrounded the pit, jaw snapping at people that yowled and hooted and froze in place. He wanted blood. He moved back, trying to smell if he could see the foe he’d met the night before, but in stead he found a singular man, in his place with him. The wolf knew what that meant — and he soon landed back on four feet to circle the other, his smell familiar, too.

—

The wolf circled them. It was stranger this time than it had been last time. When Samir was a stranger, it was easy to look at the wolf and see only a wolf. There was nothing human behind his eyes, no spark of Samir’s familiar humor or his quiet concern. Felix hadn’t known what to look for the first time he’d met Razor in the ring, of course, but this time, with Samir’s face clear in his mind… they could see no trace of their friend in the animalistic eyes staring back at them. They couldn’t see anything but rage. 

The wolf was angrier than he’d been the last time they fought. Felix could see it burning in his eyes. Was it because he knew Felix now? Did he recognize them, somehow, from Samir’s memories? They didn’t think the jaguar recognized people they’d seen and interacted with while human — he certainly hadn’t seemed to recognize Beau before trying to tear his insides out — but the jaguar was a separate spirit sharing Felix’s head. Werewolves were different, weren’t they? One mind, one body, just with some shifting in between. 

The speakers crackled. To the audience, it probably sounded like accidental interference. To Felix, it was a message. A quiet reminder to fighters once they were in the ring. Take the first swing. Make it good. Earn your keep. Felix swallowed. Allowing a little more transformation to roll over them, they shifted their legs into something stronger, their arms just enough to give their swipes more force. And then, with a grimace, they shot forward. Time to get it over with. 

—

That the wolf was a pack animal in nature wasn’t something Razor was privy to knowing. He was a solitary creature, always had been — there had been short lived companions found in other beasts of the night, but never anything substantial. All the wolf knew was the hunt, the hunger, the rage. It was the bridge between him and the human that housed him: that unrelenting anger, that didn’t come out during the day, that was buried and denied and leashed and now roared furiously.

He’d fought this creature before. The wolf wasn’t intelligent to know what it was, just that it was something to fight — something that attacked and defended and should, in turn, receive his offense. He breathed deeply as his paws hit the ground, to which blood already seemed to stick from the opening performance. His tail was high, waving the air with a menacing quality rather than one of enjoyment. He padded to and fro, waiting for the right moment to strike or, perhaps, for the other to do so.

And then they did, covered in more fur than before. The wolf burst forward a second later, jaw snapping. He wasn’t supposed to bite some of the fighters, they had tried to condition that out of his system, but he longed to sink his teeth into the flesh. To rip it with the sheer force of his teeth and his neck muscles, to devour some of this part-cat. And so he moved forward with an open jaw, jumping onto the other with his front paws outstretched to try and work them to the bloody ground.

—

The wolf snapped at him, and as Felix jumped back, all he could think was that this was Samir. Even though Samir said it wasn’t, even though there was no sign of his friend behind those cold eyes, even though the creature was attacking him like a desperate, wild animal. There was a reason, Felix thought, that the Grit Pit discouraged any kind of friendly interaction between fighters. There was a reason that they preferred one fighter to be off the premises entirely before another entered the locker room. When you started seeing someone as a person, when you knew them in quiet moments, it made it a lot harder to rip them to shreds in a fighting ring.

Razor didn’t seem to have that problem. The wolf was snapping and growling, was Samir-and-not-Samir. Felix pulled his blow a moment before their claws would have met flesh, but Razor had no such hesitation. The wolf pounced, and the balam stumbled back.

If he got them on the floor, it was over. They wouldn’t be able to get up again. Samir was shorter than Felix, but the wolf was larger. Heavier, more unmovable. If he pinned them, he’d have no trouble keeping them down. They wouldn’t be able to shove him off, wouldn’t be able to do much to fight back. So… not getting pinned was the top priority. 

The second was not hurting Samir too badly. It was the last night of the full moon, which meant any injuries Felix left Samir with would likely stick around a full month. The werewolf might not be in control of his actions, but Felix was in control of theirs. That meant they got to choose what they did tonight, and they didn’t want to hurt Samir. They didn’t want to hurt anyone, really, but they especially didn’t want to hurt Samir. So… no major arteries, no broken bones. Incapacitate gently. 

Felix ducked, using the wolf’s larger size against him as they moved to slide behind the beast. It wouldn’t be a bloodless fight regardless of Felix’s intentions — even if they could manage that, the Grit Pit would have their ass for it — but they could make sure Samir only bled from… manageable places. A swipe towards his shoulder with one hand, their leg coming up to swipe at his thigh. Anything to even the odds.

—

The wolf wasn’t a trained fighter. He was some feral thing that had existed for five or so year, coming out three times a month to run wild. There was no strategy to his moves, no studied movements or techniques he had learned: there was just the feral bloodlust, that seemed never satiated. Not when it had gorged on wailing tourists, ripping limb from limb and using hind legs to bury them half-hazardly. 

His opponents hadn’t often been skilled, to be fair. Most of them were smaller animals or humans who didn’t know about the existence of werewolves. There had been the hunters, types with silver weapons and other tricks up their sleeves to keep the wolf down. Bullets had grazed the skin, but he’d always gotten out — either due to his large size or his even larger rage.

So when the balam ducked, the wolf was frustrated, surprised. He breathed with frustration, spraying moisture from its nostrils as it turned around only to meet claws in shoulder and then drawing blood at his thigh too. Another roar escaped his throat and he went forward, enraged that the warmth of his blood was now coating his fur.

Razor’s short temper was not helped by the loudness around him, the cacophony at the first blood drawn. His own paw clawed out, moving through the fur of the others arm and breaking skin. The opposite claw moved too, now aiming for the mostly-humanoid face.

—

The swipes both hit, leaving blood on Felix’s claws and guilt crawling up their throat. They knew they shouldn’t feel badly — Samir would probably want them to fight back a little, to avoid getting seriously hurt — but it was hard not to. It was one thing when the people they were up against were strangers or people they passed in the hall from time to time. It was another when the guy across from them was a friend, when they’d sat in his kitchen and been offered water and aid and kindness. Even if Samir swore that he and Razor were two separate entities, even if there was no recognition behind the wolf’s eyes, even if it looked nothing like that man in that kitchen, the knowledge was there. 

The crowd roared as the blood spilled, which did little to alleviate the guilt Felix felt. There were shouts and screams and cheers of people who saw the violence and wanted more, people who’d put money down and were either thrilled that they might be richer after this fight or angry that they might be poorer. Leo often pushed Felix to interact with the crowd, to throw them a wink or a grin or a bow. The thought of doing so, especially now, made them feel sick.

They were caught off guard, a little, as Razor came at them. They shouldn’t have been. A few swipes weren’t going to be enough to stop the wolf, weren’t even going to be close. But Razor’s claws found Felix’s arm, and they stumbled back. They barely managed to duck their head in time to avoid catching those same claws to their face, and the crowd roared again. The announcer said something that was drowned out by the blood rushing in Felix’s ears, the crowd continued to roar. Felix’s heart was pounding. 

The jaguar shifted more, spotted fur becoming more prominent without their permission. They could feel him just beneath the surface — his rage, his desperation. It was usually easier to keep him at bay, but whatever was going on with the town seemed to be affecting more than just werewolves. And that was strange, wasn’t it? The moon had never had any power over Felix before.

They dropped down again, trying for the same move that had been successful before. One swipe with their hand, another with their foot. Enough hits, enough blood spilt, and the fight would have to be called eventually. The Grit Pit might not care much for its fighters, but both Razor and Wildcat drew enough of a crowd to make the higher management want to keep them. That meant not letting them bleed out in the ring… Felix hoped.

— 

The people were loud and with many. Razor wasn’t used to this. The places he used to run around before were empty, as if by design. Long stretches of empty beach, forests where he’d rip apart deer and foxes and whatever else crossed his path, large fields with only birds and small rodents to amuse him. But here, there were people. It made him hungry. It made him furious that he couldn’t reach them, that there was some barrier keeping him from sinking his sharp teeth into their skin.

He wanted blood. The wolf’s instincts were limited, but he knew that as the smell of iron reached his nostrils. It overtook all the other senses, all the other scents in the room. Even if the cheers and shouts were deafening, even if the smell of sweat, beer and soda was overwhelming, there was that. That iron-y thing. 

His claws missed his opponent’s face and he growled, frustration growing. He wanted the humanoid underneath him, even if their nature confused him. Razor didn’t discriminate, though: every moving thing seemed to eventually become a target of his wrath, if he had a choice. And this one? This one had drawn his blood. 

Where the wolf moved on instinct alone, growling and raging, his opponent had wits. Strategy. The half-jaguar swiped at his shoulder, blood drawn once more, but this time Razor knew to dodge the swipe at his thigh. He raised to just his hind legs and pounced, digging claws in the other’s shoulders before pushing them down, onto the ground and snarling into their face. His paws framed the other, standing next to the balam on the ground but not holding them down: Razor didn’t care about pinning the other to the ground. This was about dominance. 

He snarled, yapped, barked — and then he opened his maw, with those famed teeth. Sharp like a razor, each and every one of them, ready to sink down into his opponent. And just as he was about to bite down onto the other’s throat, a half-furred paw shot between his mouth and the throat. Teeth sunk into the upper arm’s flesh in stead, snarling as he dug in, shook his head and pulled back, a piece of meat still between his teeth.

—

For a moment, Felix deluded themself into believing the same move would win them a leg up twice. Their claws sank into Razor’s shoulder, just like before, but the second slash, the one at the wolf’s thigh, was avoided. The balam stumbled a little, having anticipated the resistance of flesh only to be met with the unexpected open air instead. They adjusted, trying to compensate. But in the ring, even the smallest slip-up could have disastrous consequences.

Razor was up on his hind legs. Where Samir was a few inches shorter than Felix, the wolf towered over them. Felix had only a moment to muse on the way the massive shadow swallowed them entirely before the weight of the wolf was bearing down on them. It was impossible to keep their balance; it was impossible to even attempt it. 

Their back hit the mat and, for a moment, they lay dazed. The weight of the wolf was still on top of them, his jaws snarling in their face and his weight crushing their ribs. Massive paws lay on either side of the balam; it wasn’t yet necessary for the wolf to bother pinning them to the ground even if he wanted them to remain still, not with the stars still dancing in front of Felix’s eyes.

He blinked them away just in time to see the wolf’s massive jaws moving towards his throat. Desperate, Felix threw up an arm to intercept those sharp teeth. And intercept they did — rather than tearing into their throat, the way Razor had intended, the jaws closed around the balam’s arm. Felix let out a pained yowl that sounded far more jaguar than human. The wolf reared his head back, ripping away flesh and muscle. The barest hint of a white glint could be seen on Felix’s arm; the bite went down to the bone.

The pain was blinding, but it was useful, too. It woke Felix up — woke the jaguar up. Felix kicked upwards and rolled at the same time, getting out from under the wolf. The mangled mess of their arm dripped blood onto the mat, hurt more than any injury they’d earned in the ring yet, but they knew if they let themself pay attention to it, they’d only suffer a worse one. If the Grit Pit’s management stepped in at all, it wouldn’t be until the last second. And the if was a big one, a daunting thing — plenty of fighters died in this ring. Felix didn’t want to be one of them.

So, new strategy. The wolf was bigger, so Felix had to be faster. They had to get into a better position. Rearing back, they leaped, attempting to position themself on the wolf’s back. Their weight probably wouldn’t be enough to take Razor to the ground, but… could you choke out a raging werewolf? Felix figured they were about to find out, one way or another.

—

The taste of flesh in his mouth made the wolf hungrier, angrier, vindicated. The crowd around the pair was making more and more noise, shaking the wire around the cage, stomping the ground and hollering at all the blood drawn. Flesh wounds weren’t rare in the Grit Pit, but seeing a werewolf bite something was a thrill to the Pit’s patrons.

Razor’s head moved up with a jolt, the piece of flesh swallowed whole. With blood now coating its mouth, it only wanted more — it didn’t just want dominance, but it wanted to kill. To feel something grow slack between its jaws, to rip it into pieces and to howl to that bright moon that gave him his powers, that made him this mad and furious. To satiate the rage that continued to storm through him.

There was a chink in his armor now. He was a hubristic creature, mouth dripping with blood, overwhelmed with the feeling of power and dominance, distracted by his hunger. The half-jaguar managed to get out from under him and the wolf seemed confused, turning its head, growling as it did. He was about to raise to two paws again when a weight slammed against his back.

Claws dug into the floor at the impact and Razor wanted to whip his head around to try and dig his teeth into the presence on his back — but he felt himself restricted. There was a tugging at that unnatural thing around his neck, the thing they clicked the chain to whenever they were trying to pull him from one place to another. The metal of the wolf’s collar constricted against his throat and he let out another growl but it was mangled, in a way. 

There was one thing to do — rage. As he struggled to take in oxygen, he used all his might to try and shake the other off, body writhing before slamming sideways, onto the mat to bring them both down. Paws clawed, into air and then at his own shoulders, at the collar, drawing his own blood while trying to reach the other to undo his tight grip. But his movements lacked the speed he’d had before, and though he remained furious, he was not as strong as he’d been moments ago.

—

Felix watched with a dull sense of interest as that chunk the wolf tore from their arm disappeared down the beast’s throat, thinking half-hysterically about how it would be Samir who digested it. Wasn’t there something kind of funny about that? If the wolf killed them in the ring, Samir would be the one whose stomach their flesh resided in regardless of the fact that he and the wolf were different entities. 

Pain radiated down their injured arm, but there was no real time to focus on it. In the Pit, you moved quickly or you suffered the consequences, and Felix didn’t want the consequences that would come with letting Razor get the better of them tonight. The crowd roared as they stood, cheered as they jumped on the beast’s back. People like an underdog, Leo told them once. That’s why we put you up against the big dogs. The crowd doesn’t know how well you can fight — they think they’re watching David kill Goliath. There’s more money in it that way. We’re doing you a favor, really. 

It didn’t feel much like a favor right now. Their arm was half-useless, still bleeding heavily even as they fought. Blood loss would get them soon if Razor didn’t beat it to the punch; they needed the fight to end now, or it would end poorly. Using the chain against the wolf wasn’t exactly fair, but there were no rules in the Grit Pit. You fought any way you could, won however you had to win. 

Razor knew that, too. It was why he was writhing and shaking and doing anything he could do to get Felix off his back. The balam dug in, the claws on their feet burying themselves into the wolf’s side to earn them a better grip. It might have worked, too, if not for Razor slamming them both against the mat. Pain shot through Felix’s injured arm, and they let out a grunt. Their grip on the chain loosened, and black spots danced in front of their vision. 

—

The impact of the ground against his scratched and beaten body was hardly felt in the rush of adrenaline. The wolf was an animal who had been forced in chains and collars and cages, who was no longer the apex predator everywhere he roamed, who was no longer allowed to roam free. He knew now, what it was like to be backed into a corner, and with his breaths constrained it was nothing but adrenaline fueled instinct left.

As the grip on his collar loosened, Razor took the opportunity it offered, head shaking viciously enough to rip it from the balam’s claws. He took a moment to stretch his neck, gulping down air and getting to his paws. His opponent was still on their back and he prowled, for a moment, before slamming them on their back with his claw hooking in their shoulders.

That the impact of the balam’s head against the mat was enough to knock them out was lost upon the beast. They were still alive. They still smelled of blood. They were still warm and fleshy and with blood staining his teeth, Razor wanted more. He growled, baring his fangs and widening his jaws to do more than mere claw-damage.