Goodnight

Jamison

Jamison grumbled under his breath as he shoved another crate onto the shelf. His shift should have been over twenty minutes ago, but as luck would have it, there were extra boats today. Normally he would have been excited at the prospect of extra work time and extra rations because of it, but he couldn't wait to leave. Today was his last full day on the island before he left for the continent. It would be the first time anyone had ever left the island since its creation.

He grunted as he hefted a particularly large barrel into a rickety cart. For eight hours a day he lifted items such as these. His arms were as large as trees, his back already starting to bend though he was only seventeen. Sweat dripped down his face and neck, causing his ponytail to cling to him. He'd have worn short sleeves or even taken his shirt off but the bugs in the shipment areas were absolutely unbearable.

The whistle sounded, announcing the change of shifts. Jamison leapt from his post not bothering to ask about his paycheck. His father had probably stolen it already. It was only for two days anyway. Heck he might not even have gotten it. He shook his head, dashing to his house to grab a meal before hitting the Pitts one last time.

The Pitts, as always, were cramped and crowded. The bars were crowing with laughter, shouts and cheers braying from the pits. Young girls waved to him from corners and alcoves, beckoning him to join them. He glanced their way, but knew better than to approach them. He was here to fight anyway, to blow off some steam and leave a lasting effect. After all, this was his last night on the island.

He checked in with the pit master, shrugging off his jacket, hanging it on a peg. He cracked his knuckles, beginning to stretch out his muscles when the pit master asked, "Hey, ever heard of someone named Helion?"

"Yeah I have," Jamison said, trying not to let his facial expressions move him. He had definitely heard of Helion.

"Well, he came over to me earlier and asked if he could fight here. I threw him in the ring with a couple of my trainers and he was alright. Good enough for a couple early shows."

Jamison's heart thundered a moment. Helion was fighting in the pits? "Why are you letting a kid fight here?" he asked, throwing up his hands. "He's no older than twelve!"

"Hey, if someone wants a job and they might make me some money, then I'm lettin' em in." The pit master said. "The only reason I asked you, was because the kid said he was gon' be the next one of you after you left. How does he know you afterall?"

Jamison ran a hand through his hair, tying the messy strands into a bun. "Kid's my half brother."

The Pit master shrugged somewhat nervously knowing who he was with. "Sorry. Can't do much about it now. I'd ask you to train him but you'll be out." It didn't appease Jamison's glare. The master sighed again. "Look, kid, I'm sorry, but I can't do nothing about it. I'll… I'll keep him in the daylight fights until he gets really good. Then it's outta my hands."

Furious and fuming, Jamison walked away shaking his head. Stupid kid, what was he thinking? You could make a pretty coin but you had to be prepared to be beaten down into the ground before you did. Jamison shook his head.

The day was unusually chilly, the makeshift roof pulled over the Pitts to keep from the steady drizzle. Night had fallen and the most invested patrons arrived to watch the fights. The ones that bet the most coin, and made him the most profit. Not that he'd be able to use it when he left for the continent. He was pretty sure they used a more updated currency than those filthy bills and chipping coins. The few in his pocket he'd give to his brother: the only person he could say that he didn't hate on the island.

His first fight was easy. Something he could fool around with, put on a show. She was a young thing, someone he'd never seen before. Someone that probably worked at another arena like the Spokes or who was a daylight fighter. She was alright, but not very fast or efficient. A few blocks and punches, he flipped over her head, sending her onto the ground with an arm around her neck. He pulled her hair that she'd foolishly left in a ponytail, daring her to try again.

She whipped around and he let her land a punch. But only so he could grab her wrist and twist it behind her, just enough to make it pop, before tossing her into the sand. She hit the ground face first and attempted to rise, but Jamison put his foot on the small of her back and forced her to the ground. She didn't try to get up again, her face bleeding onto the sand.

His next fight went similar to the first, a newbie for him to play with. He had some cool tricks that the patrons had come to like and enjoy. But what they really wanted to see…

His fist hit the wall with a resounding crack as she ducked swiftly enough to evade him. He jumped back before she could counterstrike. His knee was aching. She'd landed a hard kick earlier in the fight, causing him a loss of speed. The two traded blows for a moment before he faked a step to his left, then brought his foot up to her face. He heard a crunch as she tumbled in the sand, rolling a few times.

She pushed herself up, blood gushing from her twisted nose, with a busted lip and severely bruised and crooked jaw to boot. He didn't look much better himself. He was covered in scratches and scrapes, bruises littering his jawline and his exposed chest. His knuckles bled as well. Punching the wall had caused two of them to go numb. The girl threw herself at him again, screaming something unintelligent.

She kneed him in the side, leaving her own side exposed. He threw a hand as hard as he could into her stomach. He heard a whoosh as the air left her lungs. She stumbled back, but stayed on her feet. Her eyes remained on him, blocking his flurry of punches. He almost groaned in frustration. He'd never been in such rough shape in a fight. Except maybe against Gisa. But she was easily his better and had ended it in due time. This fight would be one of endurance.

Patrons cheered and coins clinked, the ale flowed liberally. It all changed to a dull roar in Jamison's ears. Just keep moving. Block, strike, move. Fighting became a dance and neither opponent scored anything on the other. Punching, kicking, dodging, rolling. He couldn't even pull her hair as she had her head almost completely shaved, save for the nearly buzzed strip of blue hair down the middle of her skull.

She shoved him over with a kick. He hit the sand hard, skin splitting open on his side and his arm. He looked up in time to see her toss a handful of sand right into his eyes. Dirty, dirty fighter. Though it went against his every instinct, he jumped up his likely-sprained knee screaming in pain, and aimed right at the spot she was standing. If she was going to play dirty, so was he. He threw her to the ground, landing his entire body weight on her frame. He heard her cry out in pain and felt a few of her ribs collapse beneath his weight. His left eye cleared, but he could only see red in his right.

He stood up, looking down on her body, collapsed in the sand. Her breathing was shallow. "Goodnight." he whispered, before kicking her in the temple. Her eyes closed and her hand went limp.

"And the title goes to Jamison!" The pit master roared, raising Jamison's arm. The crowd's shouts grew louder, some people chanting his name. People jostled each other, pointing and shouting.

"That was one of the best fights I think I have ever seen in my time as pit master." The master said so only he could hear. The medical team was moving his opponent out, her chest heaving. He did his best not to cringe. "It's a shame to lose you."

Jamison hissed as the steaming water ran over his cuts and scrapes in the shower. The team had set his knee, and told him it was a minor sprain. His whole face was swollen and every part of him ached. At least it was a good way to go out. He'd have a place to go back to if the people on the continent ever sent him back. He forewent soap in the interest of time, and pain. As he passed a cracked mirror, he almost laughed at his reflection. He looked like the loser, not the winner. His entire face was mottled red, purple and black in color, his nose slightly crooked, bottom lip swelled to the point where he talked funny. He hoped it looked worse when he arrived on the continent.