D8 Lawson vs D10 Rune [89th Spar]

"Oh fuck."

You're the tiniest kid here, next to Luya. At least Aurora has her height and the flex of being friends with a victor. So sue you for swearing quietly under your breath when you're paired with a strong looking kid from Ten - they're all cattle-wranglers and hay-bale tossers and you're just a girl who can paint. No muscles, nothing but a frown and a steady hand - this was a mistake.

But you can't back down now, less you look even more pathetic. They'll go straight for the small ones with no backbone the second you all step off the platforms and if you're lucky they'll make it quick. Hungry eyes so eager to see you fail, taking notes on how and if you fight. So you stand there blushing and serious, trying not to show that your hands are shaking as you raise them in front of your face and shuffle around in a circle.

Tiny girl, all fight, you pretend the kid in front of you is your sister Remy and swing straight for the face.

Taking a first swing has to count for something. It's what you're telling yourself, imagining what all the kids around you are thinking. That you're not afraid to begin a fight. That you've got heart, even if your first punch feels flimsy against Maddox's body.

And Maddox is just as prepared, clipping the side of your arm as you raise your hands up to defend yourself. You stumble a little under their strength, catch your footing quickly, and huff air out of your nose.

At least you didn't yelp, you tell yourself as you steady your pose and remember what the trainers had suggested - legs apart, parallel with your shoulders, Mom always said you looked good in blue. Maybe the bruises will compliment your eyes.

"You fight little girls often?" you ask through gritted teeth, hoping you sound much tougher than you feel.

You don't wait for a response, opting for a kick of your good leg instead.

You'd hoped they wouldn't say something along those lines.

Despite being told your entire life that you were too young for most things that took your fancy, you'd hoped that your youth would be your saving grace in this place. And it was childish to think that some kids would have enough morals left to not want to hit a little girl - but wishful thinking was all it was.

A surprised little "oomph!" leaves your throat, wincing as knuckle connects with your chest. Your kick had been futile, failing to bring your opponent down as you'd hoped. Panicking and running out of ideas, you take a few steps back to give yourself a running start and launch your whole body at Maddox, planning to slam your shoulder into their side.

If this doesn't work, you might start crying. Then you'd really see who felt sorry for you and who to avoid with all costs in the arena.

Their words hang heavy in the pause of the spar and the longer they linger the more sure you are that you're going to start crying.

You're getting frustrated now, swinging wildly and with no direction. It's just desperate arcs and kicks landing nowhere and throwing you off balance, and even when you throw your whole weight into a run you can barely get a good hit in. Your rage makes you careless and Maddox finds easy openings, each beat-down both physical and mental.

Show me what you're made of --

"Nothing good it seems!" you whine, taking a moment to clench and unclench your fists, blinking back tears. And that's haunted you your whole life - you've never been much, and even the things you are good at have never been great. Just a little girl lost - in herself, in her pain, in a house full of sisters. Whatever you're made of, it's fragile and fickle.

And then it's furious, snarling and anguished.

"Ugh!" and the tears are white-hot and sharp in the corners of your eyes.

No use, nothing works, you just go back-and-forth, tit-for-tat, making no real mark. The audience is getting bored now, some trailing off back to their stations, and you think of the way the boy from 7 and the career from 1 knew how to put on a show. A concussion and a broken nose, the crack of knuckle and the splatter of blood on an upper lip. You'll die in there with people like them, and all you'll have to show for it is bruised knuckles and tears.

All the world's a stage, and you're just a background character.

Over my dead body, you think with a frown and a swing just like Nylon Gingham.