Years had passed since she last found herself in Moscow, but it was still home. Nothing much had changed in the dark jewel of a city, nor in all its beautiful shadows. She was well acquainted with those cool dark places of the Underground, and never found much fault with Ascendancy's blind eye towards its more illicit activities. Darkness need spread somewhere, after all.
The Custody paid for her flight home. An assignment would come, but for now she was simply instructed to convalesce -- though for someone like Nhysa, the word had something of a unique interpretation. Her body felt wasted, at least to the standards she was used to, and yet she discovered little in the way of challenge presented by tonight's entertainment. Perhaps they mistook leanness for weakness, or perhaps it was only that too many years had passed and her reputation here had faded into dust.
Tonight Almaz gave her insufferably fragile opponents.
The rounds blurred beyond number before she even felt the first stings of sweat at the back of her neck. Smashed noses. Crunched bones. Split lips. Quick, efficient brutality. She might as well have been picking fucking roses. Then a blow caught her stomach, radiating a spectrum of pain that flickered a curl to her lips. She doubled over, wheezing a laugh. A moment later and the sharp crack of an elbow took him in the chin, whipping his head back. A sweep relieved him of his balance. Perhaps he hit the ground awkwardly, for he was disappointingly unconscious by the time she leaned over to peer down at why he had not yet gotten up.
She rolled her eyes, straightening. Her stomach twinged sharply. Handlers dragged the dead weight of her opponent away, until he became lost in the shadows of the concealed pit entrances (the darkness, it had to be said, watched a little curiously). Nhysa swiped a hand over the back of her clammy neck, eyes momentarily rising to the brightness above. The roar of music drowned the fussing of the crowd. Screens projected for those unable to capture ringside seats, though Nhysa didn't much care for the audience; or at least, it made little difference to her whether they were there or not.
When her attention lowered it was with impatience for the delay. "Next?"
"You're bleeding."
"And?" She looked down, and found herself faintly surprised by the amount of blood burst brilliant against the front of her tank. One of the handlers peered out of the shadows, beckoning her to move off, his face looking just about ready to puke. Nhysa's lips flattened disapproval, acquiescing only reluctantly. The darkness grew a little blacker as she passed. "It looks worse than it is."
Rooms for the competitors were nothing like those for the guests, who watched the decadent violence from thrones of luxury. Creaking pipes ran overhead, rushing on water to the communal showers. The light was sallow, better to disguise the blood, though you could smell it like iron in the air.
Ilya waited just beyond the entrance. Habitual black draped his shoulders (better to hide the blood), his bearded face like a disembodied skull above. He snapped the gloves on his hands, smiling faintly, brows lifting with the offer of assistance. He remembered her, if no one else; damn doctor was as old as the pitted walls. Nhysa waved him off with a wink. Rumour these days said the guy kept young girls whose fingers healed or mangled at a touch, but such was reserved for the highest earners (or those with the richest patrons). Most of those had the privacy of their own rooms anyway.
Cold tiles stung underfoot as she hit the showers. The slap of the water echoed like a rainstorm, the rip of its touch like little needles. She raised her face to the pain for a while before she inspected the wound. Some of the necrotic crust had ripped away, which explained the pain. Gooey red tissue peeked beneath, too shiny new to even be considered close to repaired skin. Blushing pink swirled away at her feet as she poked a little at the wound amidst a swell of frustration. How long until the fucking thing healed?
The Custody paid for her flight home. An assignment would come, but for now she was simply instructed to convalesce -- though for someone like Nhysa, the word had something of a unique interpretation. Her body felt wasted, at least to the standards she was used to, and yet she discovered little in the way of challenge presented by tonight's entertainment. Perhaps they mistook leanness for weakness, or perhaps it was only that too many years had passed and her reputation here had faded into dust.
Tonight Almaz gave her insufferably fragile opponents.
The rounds blurred beyond number before she even felt the first stings of sweat at the back of her neck. Smashed noses. Crunched bones. Split lips. Quick, efficient brutality. She might as well have been picking fucking roses. Then a blow caught her stomach, radiating a spectrum of pain that flickered a curl to her lips. She doubled over, wheezing a laugh. A moment later and the sharp crack of an elbow took him in the chin, whipping his head back. A sweep relieved him of his balance. Perhaps he hit the ground awkwardly, for he was disappointingly unconscious by the time she leaned over to peer down at why he had not yet gotten up.
She rolled her eyes, straightening. Her stomach twinged sharply. Handlers dragged the dead weight of her opponent away, until he became lost in the shadows of the concealed pit entrances (the darkness, it had to be said, watched a little curiously). Nhysa swiped a hand over the back of her clammy neck, eyes momentarily rising to the brightness above. The roar of music drowned the fussing of the crowd. Screens projected for those unable to capture ringside seats, though Nhysa didn't much care for the audience; or at least, it made little difference to her whether they were there or not.
When her attention lowered it was with impatience for the delay. "Next?"
"You're bleeding."
"And?" She looked down, and found herself faintly surprised by the amount of blood burst brilliant against the front of her tank. One of the handlers peered out of the shadows, beckoning her to move off, his face looking just about ready to puke. Nhysa's lips flattened disapproval, acquiescing only reluctantly. The darkness grew a little blacker as she passed. "It looks worse than it is."
Rooms for the competitors were nothing like those for the guests, who watched the decadent violence from thrones of luxury. Creaking pipes ran overhead, rushing on water to the communal showers. The light was sallow, better to disguise the blood, though you could smell it like iron in the air.
Ilya waited just beyond the entrance. Habitual black draped his shoulders (better to hide the blood), his bearded face like a disembodied skull above. He snapped the gloves on his hands, smiling faintly, brows lifting with the offer of assistance. He remembered her, if no one else; damn doctor was as old as the pitted walls. Nhysa waved him off with a wink. Rumour these days said the guy kept young girls whose fingers healed or mangled at a touch, but such was reserved for the highest earners (or those with the richest patrons). Most of those had the privacy of their own rooms anyway.
Cold tiles stung underfoot as she hit the showers. The slap of the water echoed like a rainstorm, the rip of its touch like little needles. She raised her face to the pain for a while before she inspected the wound. Some of the necrotic crust had ripped away, which explained the pain. Gooey red tissue peeked beneath, too shiny new to even be considered close to repaired skin. Blushing pink swirled away at her feet as she poked a little at the wound amidst a swell of frustration. How long until the fucking thing healed?