brother what're you gonna do with a 9mm and a three piece suit?

[goodsoldier]

Who: OPEN
What: an underground fight night. place your bets.
Where: a warehouse in Griss Twist
When: evening
Notes: Jason is fighting in the main bout, but there is at least one other one, so feel free to make up details for that or others. I'll put up one subsection specifically for Jason's fight and directly after his match. That's primarily for Lisa, but anyone else could harass him if you felt so moved.
Warnings: not especially explicit violence.

The warehouse is an old venue and this evening's organizers old hands. The small arena sits low, not quite a pit, and it's standing room only. Plenty of drink is being sold, and a little food, at mostly reasonable prices. The lighting is harsh, the air is smoky, the sound of people spectating and jeering and arguing is muted yet immense, partially suppressed by the murk of the warehouse and the jaded atmosphere. But the evening's early yet.

In a side room, grubby tables and a varied assortment of seating is available. Some desultory gambling is going on. Substances may be purchased discreetly, deals are being made, and one table in the corner is the unofficially designated area to place bets.

A few matches are set to take place. The ultimate total will depend on how fast they come to an end, who showed up, and if there are any adventurers in the crowd. The main event has a designated time and is between a known fighter with a good reputation, and a newcomer. It hasn't been hyped much, but for regulars, that may be more promising than if it had been.

Comments

JASON'S FIGHT

[goodsoldier]

Fights like these have an element of theater. This isn't work, which is not to say that his work never incorporates theatrical aspects. No, he knows that better than anyone. Yet here there is the sense of stage, lighting, audience, and role. Tonight he is not a vigilante. He is not even Jason Todd hiding his identity. He absolutely must be someone else, an entire persona, no halfassing a disguise; it's not a matter of lightening his hair to a dull brown and using a different name, it's changing the way he fights, both the method and style. Killing and maiming are frowned upon, obviously, and it's only be prudent to avoid using the same skills he might use for work. It'd be inconvenient for someone to recognize him later.

However, there isn't any guarantee he'll win. He's not trying to build a long term career in this but he has to be careful. Among the weekend gawkers, the casual thrillseekers, and those seeking to be entertained for a night, there are serious criminal organizations and chronic gamblers. This system cannot be gamed, as such, not by someone with as few remaining connections as he has. He must participate correctly, follow certain rules, and be careful what fights he takes to maximize money and minimize danger, both in the form of physical injury and attracting the wrong attention.

His opponent is more exciting than he is a solid fighter, one accustomed to some of the necessary showmanship for underground fighting. A smaller, agile man of great flexibility and acrobatic talent, their match-up looks almost comical; from what he can tell, most gamblers believe the man will run circles around Jason, who is built more along the lines of a big guy street brawler. It is genuinely a bit challenging to lay a hand on his opponent, and would be even more so if he really were only a big guy street brawler. But of course, he's not, and neither is his persona. Some flashiness is necessary in order to get in on these gigs. Letting the fight stretch several rounds is expected and sensible, and it's anything but boring. He's better at taking hits, though the smaller man does pack a surprising punch, and he turns out to be much faster than he looks, if not nearly as fast as Jason Todd is capable of being. And if the newcomer, Not Jason Todd, displays more versatility and quick thinking than actual skill, so be it. When the fight ends, it's not out of nowhere — there was a definite progression, steeper as time wore on though still respectable enough for the other fighter, and a satisfying knockout. Not Jason Todd seems genuinely elated by victory, surprised and pleased, a talker, a bit of an idiot, a likeable enough guy, assuming you'd bet on him. He lingers after the match to investigate other fight opportunities and take casual stock of the kind of people in the scene right now.

the peanut gallery

[caballero]

What might have once been a work station or a front desk, long since stripped and left to rust, has been turned into a bar; fencing pylons ring the pit, then again meters back, spectators leaning, straddling, leaving drinks and various rolled bits of slow-burning herbs on. Steel-scavengers of yore have stripped most of the inside of the warehouse, but the catwalk that edges the walls four meters up remains, a raised ring of shadowed onlookers, hovering at the height of the intermittently scattered and hanging light bulbs with tin covers. In every crowd - particularly these kinds of crowds - there's the belligerent ones, the assholes, the ones waiting for marks and the ones waiting to be suckered; mostly, though, it's people looking to have a good time. So sue them, this is their idea of a good time.

A blue-skinned woman in a chainmail bustier slinks through the room enticing bets, the bar tender - old, chatty, one of the organizers - gossips in his gruff voice about anyone he's seen before, amiable, with his one half-drunk friend permanently attached to one side of the bar, offering his own commentary. From the back of the crowd, a man shouts loudly, cajoling an acquaintance into throwing his hat into the ring. Somebody gets clocked near the betting table, but he's dragged out, and everyone nearby bursts into roaring laughter. Up above, a black-clad man with tape on his knuckles rests his forearms on the railing and watches, while his cranky-looking companion puts the stub of his cigar out in someone else's drink.

Should be a good night.

Bar (fights)

[snaketrap]

There is a man in the corner watching the matches closely; not just the matches but the people around, too. Analyzing their movements, how they talk, how they react, what they do. Word carries itself around if you know how to listen. There was no space for a criminal in many places but the Arena and places like this. This where many wore a brand like it was a way of life. For many, he would suppose, it was.

A heavy drink lay in his hands for the better part of the evening, enough to make him warm. A very heavy drink lay in his hands. Old bourbon. War almond in color and smooth burn. It was not comparable in strength to the ales of his realm but it would do. He decided on something similar to those about him. Leathers of green and more simplistic mortal fashion. Nothing what he would wear as he did in ring fighting.His ceremonial armor becoming a 'thing' as it were.

What must it be like to be as this, he wondered. Where you could break a sweat after five minutes of dancing on squared canvas. Loki was unsure whether it was pathetic or interesting but likely both to some degree. Just the genetic primitiveness. Of course eventually, Loki being Loki, and a place like this being a place like this, he caught someones attention. Someone who took issue with marked criminals.

It ended. Fast. First with words and then when it escalated to fists a broken wrist and a kick to his diaphragm that would have a human half way across the room and dead. The only reason it didn't was that he weren't a human. All Loki could do was smirk.

Well then.