The Lost Ones

Monsters are we

Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss , the abyss also gazes into you. — Friedrich Nietzsche

PS. Not edited because I'm lazy.

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Upper cut, right hook, round off kick.

My sparring partner misstep, taking my kick to the groin. On his way down I jab the pressure point in neck, making him pass out. I blink at him, satisfied with my conquest. I step over his body as the other Spector's clap. I look around at their face's. They clap because they enjoy pain, that it is all they enjoy. A few men come into the ring to drag my victim out. I raise my fist in the universal symbol of victory and to bring on the next. The cement door grated open behind me, causing me to turn to welcome the next sparring partner. The black mat shone under the high suspended lights, glinting maliciously. The door stopped, allowing me to view the boy who stood in its wake.

At six foot five, the boy standing before me had a good foot on me. He also weighed twice as much as I . I did not fear him, fear was not something I knew any longer. I raised my eyes to him, meting the glinting eyes of the boy who had caused me pain, who had broken my body and dragged me here. The boy who had stole my soul.

It was his turn to wither in pain.

I took the fighting stance as he approached me, circling me wide to look for an in. I followed his movements, not allowing a moment of weakness. He stops, standing straight.

"You would like your chance to break me, wouldn't you?" He ask with a small, vile smile. I returned this sentiment.

"Chance is not pat of the equation. I will make you suffer." I hissed. He let out a booming laugh, causing the Spector's to hoot.

"Ah. If you believe. But, alas today is not the day. You must be patient because today I am to take you to the heads." He hums, fingers twitching at his side, just itching yo wrap around my neck probably. I glare, wondering if this was a tactic. After all there was no rules in this game, as there were no rules in war. You fight to win, not fight for splendor or grace. He could easily be trapping me in a ploy, or he could be telling me the truth.

Truth.

A grudging voice whispers against my distant conscience. I take a step towards him, to which he gracefully mirrored. We did this until we were both out of the stone fighting coliseum. The Spector's boo and splutter cuss words at our retreat, angry their entertainment had ceased. I watched the boy, his name was Ares, a name he had chosen himself. He chose it for the sake of symbolism, saying he was as strong as the  Greek Ares, God of Warfare.

He watched me with disinterest as I stepped from my sparring clothes. I dressed again in the uniform of black. As soon as I had pulled the stretchy black shirt over my head, I was gripped tightly and yanked down the hall. The metal halls shone eerily, making me have a feeling of distrust boil in my stomach.

"Why do the heads wish to see me?" I ask coldly, yanking my arm roughly from Ares grip. His fingers dragged across my skin, peeling my skin away. I look at my arm dully, patting the small smattering of blood away.

Ares grabs my neck, steering me down a hall that lead to change wing. It was the wing that all new changers were  kept in. I frowned at this and elbowed Ares in the gut, then swinging my fist down to met his groin. He groaned, loosing his hold on my neck as I took his arm and flipped him into the ground hard.