Work Text:
When you’re first recruited into the Pit, you are branded.
It’s not a huge mark—just a small, singed emblem on your inner ankle. It’s a way for Pit Fighters to be identified, but it’s also imbibed with the magic that creates the Tattoos.
The Tattoos are involuntary.
Well. Through the act of killing, you make your choice. The soul animal of the person you killed is forever inked onto your skin, in vibrant, sickening color.
Tommy has been in the Pit for three days, and he has two tattoos.
A red panda, curled under his collarbone like it could be sleeping. That was from the first day, when he was thrown into the pit after the shitty excuse for an introduction Quackity gave him. The girl sprung on him immediately, red hair flying, and the fight hadn’t been long enough for the crowd to even figure out who Tommy was. He killed her eventually. A kick to the skull and a knife through her throat. Tommy doesn’t like drawing out deaths.
The red panda had appeared as he changed his bloodied clothes, and he squinted at it in the mirror for a solid thirty seconds. He probably should have felt something, seeing as it was his first Tattoo, but he didn’t. He just cleaned his knives and left for the barracks.
The second Tattoo, gained fifteen minutes ago. The boy had been loud and distracting, which would have been a decent tactic if Tommy hadn’t lived in an orphanage for the majority of his life. The boy had no other notable assets, and his neck was snapped within three minutes of the fight.
Now, in the locker room, Tommy examines the beagle on his calf. It’s slightly larger than the red panda, and he traces a fascinated finger over it.
“Second kill in three days, huh?”
Tommy whirls around, knife raised, and then immediately lowers it slightly. Because standing in front of him, covered with so many Tattoos his skin is barely visible, is the Blade. Red cape, crown, boar skull mask and all.
The Blade tilts his head. “Smart choice.”
“What the fuck do you want,” Tommy says warily, knife lowered but still clutched tightly in his hands.
The Blade spreads his arms out placatingly. “The crowds are buzzin’ about the deadly new arrival. Thought I’d introduce myself.”
“You’re the Blade. I’m Theseus,” Tommy says shortly. “There. We’re introduced.”
“Hmm. Feisty.” The Blade considers him. “Wanna spar?”
Tommy blinks at him. “What?”
“Spar. It’s when two people fight without the intention of—“
“I know what sparring means,” Tommy says sharply. “Why do you want to do it with me?”
The Blade shrugs. Tommy notices a shark Tattoo, curled on the left side of his neck, and an eagle, splayed on the back of his hand. God, there’s got to be a thousand of them, overlapping on his scarred skin. “Want to see how the rookie fights.”
Tommy sighs. He supposes it can’t be that bad—after all, spars are never to kill, and it’d be interesting to observe the fighting style of the legendary Blade. “Fine.”
The Blade grins sharply. “Great. I’ll meet you at Ring Eleven in ten minutes.”
Tommy doesn’t reply, and the Blade leaves the room as silently as he came.
Tommy spends the next ten minutes wrapping his wounds and sharpening his knives. He also changes his pants, from the stuffy, required skin tight ones to the looser tunics he favors.
When he arrives at Ring Eleven, the Blade is waiting, leaning on his axe casually. “So. First things first. How old are you?”
“One hundred.”
“Funny. How old.”
Tommy glares. “Sixteen.”
The Blade whistles. “Damn. And already up two kills in your first week.” He hums. “Your specialty is knives—at least, that’s what the crowds say. But from what I’ve seen from you so far,” his red eyes glint through the sockets of the boar skull mask, “I have a feeling you’re hidin’ a few tricks up your sleeve.”
Tommy scowls at the ease of which the Blade picks him apart. “I could say the same for you, bitch. Why don’t you ever take advantage of your vertical?”
The Blade tilts his head, intrigued.
“I mean, you’ve got the design,” Tommy says, gesturing to the Blade’s hybrid legs, bent backwards like a pig’s. “Seems stupid not to use them.”
“I prefer not to put all my eggs into one basket,” the Blade says, and he steps into the ring. The conversation is over. The fight is about to begin. “Rules: no kill shots. Fight as dirty as you want. Last one to tap out wins.”
“Sir, yes sir,” Tommy salutes condescendingly, and the Blade growls. Hmm. This should be fun.
They circle each other for a few minutes, considering. The Blade has a tight hold on his axe, and Tommy takes in every bit of his figure, categorizing and strategizing in his head. Weaknesses. Strengths. Distractions.
Then the Blade lunges, and the fight truly begins.
Tommy swerves easily, already anticipating the swing that follows, and he manages to land a swift kick to the Blade’s ribs. The man doesn’t even stagger, launching into the air again. Tommy ducks, and flicks his knife from between his fingers. It lands in the thick fabric of the Blade’s chestpiece, just as he intended, and the Blade hesitates, confused, for a fraction of second. But a fraction of a second is all Tommy needs to swing a kick and—
The Blade catches his ankle and pulls him to the ground, kneeing him in the chest. Tommy’s breath leaves him with a whoosh. Techno holds Tommy’s head down with his forearm. Tommy struggles, and the Blade leans closer.
“Tap out,” he whispers from behind his boar mask. Tommy glares at him, and sinks his teeth into his arm.
The Blade lurches involuntarily, and Tommy pushes himself up, punching the Blade square in the face. A tiny, hairline fracture appears on the gleaming white of his mask, and the Blade lifts a hand to it.
“Oh, you fucker,” he growls, but there’s no real heat in his voice, and the fight begins again.
Six minutes later. Tommy is pressed on the ground, cheek squished into the dust. The dull side of the Blade’s axe is pressed against the back of his neck.
“Tap out,” the Blade demands for the eighth time. “Oh my god, you’re such a child. Tap out .”
“Fine!” Tommy grumbles, tapping his hand three times against the ground. Immediately, the weight on the back of his neck is lifted, and Tommy rolls over. The Blade extends a hand. Tommy takes it, noting the thick calluses and tiny bee Tattoos trailing over his knuckles.
“Not bad,” the Blade says as the both walk to the training room to treat their wounds. “Not bad at all.”
“Your approval means so much to me, Blade,” Tommy says flatly, and the Blade actually snorts.
“Techno,” he says, sheathing his axe and feeling along his mask for the fracture. “My name is Techno.”
Tommy blinks. The fuck? “Um. Okay.”
“Usually this is when you say your name too,” the Blade—Techno deadpans.
Tommy wrinkled his nose. “Bitch.”
“That’s a funny—“
“Tommy. I’m Tommy.”
The Blade blinks, then snorts. “That’s a dumb name. I'm still calling you Theseus.”
“Okay, says the bitch named fucking Techno—“