Dean
The clang of steel echoed through the cellblock like a judge’s gavel, rousing Dean from a fitful half-sleep. His cell door slid open with a harsh, mechanical groan, the dim light of the corridor spilling onto his cot. He barely had time to rise before the guards appeared—hulking figures, their black uniforms gleaming faintly under the flickering fluorescent lights. One of them stepped forward, his baton tapping menacingly against the frame holding the beds.
“Matroni,” the guard barked, his voice sharp and clipped. “On your feet.”
Dean hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he weighed his options. But the guard wasn’t waiting. He lunged, grabbing Dean by the arm and yanking him upright. Another guard joined in, twisting his other arm behind his back before securing the cuffs. The cold steel bit into his wrists, a cruel reminder of his captivity.
“Let’s go,” the first guard growled, shoving him toward the corridor. A beep escaped his collar.
The hallway outside was alive with activity—prisoners being dragged from their cells, some resisting, others shuffling obediently with heads bowed. The air was thick with tension, a palpable dread that settled over the line of inmates like a suffocating blanket. Dean was shoved into the formation, his bare feet scraping against the grated floor as the line began to move.
The guards wasted no time asserting their dominance. They walked alongside the inmates, spitting insults and occasionally swinging their batons. One guard struck an inmate in the ribs, sending him staggering against the wall. Another grabbed a straggler by the collar and hauled him forward, snarling something unintelligible.
“Pick it up before I unfuck you!” a guard shouted, his baton striking the grated floor with a deafening clang.
Dean kept his head low, his mind racing. The corridors were dimly lit, the overhead lights spaced too far apart to banish the shadows. In the intermittent darkness, his senses sharpened, picking up the subtle details others might miss—the faint hum of the collars around their necks, the scuff of boots on steel, the low murmur of a distant conversation.
As the group descended deeper into the facility, the air grew heavier, colder. The polished steel walls of the upper levels gave way to something more sinister. Rust streaked the surfaces, mingling with dark stains that could have been water—or something worse. The faint smell of mildew and decay grew stronger with each step, clawing its way into Dean’s nostrils and settling in the back of his throat.
The guards seemed unaffected, their movements brisk and efficient as they herded the inmates through the maze-like corridors. But Dean noticed the subtle glances they exchanged, the way their hands lingered near their weapons. Whatever lay ahead, it wasn’t just for the inmates to fear.
The group passed a series of doors, each one sealed with heavy locks and adorned with cryptic warning symbols. One door stood ajar, its faintly glowing edges pulsating with an unnatural light. Dean caught a glimpse inside—rows of mechanical arms whirred and clicked, their skeletal frames dipping into vats of bubbling liquid. The air around the door seemed to shimmer, distorting the view like heat waves rising from asphalt.
“What the hell is that?” someone whispered behind him, but the guards offered no answers. Instead, one of them turned and struck the inmate with his baton, silencing any further questions.
“Eyes forward!” the guard snapped, his tone brooking no argument.
They moved on, the corridor narrowing until it felt more like a tunnel. The lights grew dimmer, the shadows deeper. Dean’s gaze flicked to the walls, where faint scratches marred the surface—marks left by desperate hands clawing for escape. A chill ran down his spine as he noticed a faint, rhythmic tapping sound coming from somewhere up ahead.
The descent continued, the group navigating a series of steep staircases. The grated steps clanged underfoot, the sound echoing endlessly in the confined space. Dean’s muscles ached as they were forced to move faster, the guards barking orders to hurry. The air grew colder still, and the smell of rot became almost unbearable.
They passed another set of doors, these lined with intricate mechanical seals that hissed faintly as the group approached. Through one partially open door, Dean saw a flash of movement—something hunched and misshapen, its silhouette illuminated by a flickering red light. It moved with a jerking, unnatural gait, disappearing into the darkness before he could get a better look.
“Keep moving!” a guard barked, shoving him forward.
Dean stumbled, his bare feet slipping on the damp floor. The cold steel sent a jolt up his spine, but he caught himself before he fell. He glanced over his shoulder, catching sight of the inmate behind him—a gaunt man with hollow cheeks and eyes that darted nervously, like a cornered animal searching for an escape. His subtle shake of the head carried a desperate warning, his expression begging Dean to keep his gaze forward and not invite further trouble.
The line finally came to a halt in front of a massive, rusted door. The metal was pitted and corroded, its surface streaked with dried blood and blackened handprints. The faint outline of a symbol—a jagged spiral—was barely visible beneath the grime. The door groaned as it slid open, revealing a room bathed in sickly yellow light.
Dean’s stomach churned as he stepped inside. The floor was slick with a mix of water and something thicker, the smell of iron and rot clinging to the air. The walls were adorned with hooks and chains, some of which still held tattered scraps of fabric—or flesh. The faint hum of machinery filled the space, punctuated by the occasional hiss of steam escaping unseen vents.
In the center of the room stood a table, its surface stained dark with old blood. Surrounding it were a series of mechanical instruments, their sharp edges glinting ominously in the flickering light. A faint, almost imperceptible vibration ran through the floor, as if the entire room were alive, breathing.
Dean’s gaze flicked to the walls, where faint shadows writhed and twisted, forming shapes that seemed almost human before dissolving into nothingness. The sound of distant screams echoed faintly through the vents, rising and falling like the tide.
One of the guards stepped forward, his expression unreadable as he addressed the group. “Welcome to your new reality,” he said, his voice laced with mockery. “Consider this your inauguration.”
Dean’s fists clenched as he forced himself to breathe. The air was thick, suffocating, but he couldn’t afford to show weakness. Whatever this was, he’d survive it. He had to.
The guard, identified by the name tag gleaming under the dim lights as Heller, Jon, smirked, his teeth flashing like a wolf about to pounce. “Let the fun begin,” he sneered, gesturing theatrically toward the wall ahead.
A mechanical hiss filled the air as the wall in front of them began to rise, steel grinding against steel with a grating roar. The sound reverberated through the damp chamber, making a few of the inmates flinch instinctively. Light poured in, brighter than anything Dean had seen since arriving at Ashgate, momentarily blinding them all. As his vision adjusted, the scene beyond the rising wall took shape—and it was nothing like he had imagined.
The space opened into a vast, arena-like expanse, its floor a mixture of cracked concrete and rust-streaked metal plates. Surrounding the core of the facility was a massive-caged enclosure, rising in tiers like a stadium. Rows of seats stretched upward, separated by jagged, welded bars that created a labyrinthine barrier. Dean could easily imagine the spectators filling the cage: leering inmates who had earned privileges, guards enjoying the carnage, and, if the rumors were true, the elusive “investors” who funded this hellhole. The entire structure exuded an eerie, industrial brutality, as though it had been cobbled together by someone with no regard for anything but suffering.
“We call it the pit,” Heller drawled, stepping to the side so the prisoners could see the arena in all its grim glory. He spread his arms wide, the gesture mockingly grand. “Tonight’s just a little warm-up, nothing fancy. You lot”—he jabbed his finger at the group of trembling inmates—“are going to give us a show. Ten of you against one of our ‘all dayers.’”
The term lingered in the air, heavy and ominous. Dean’s mind flicked to Jonathan’s offhand remark about Ashgate’s fighters, the ones who made bloodshed an art form. He scanned the room again, calculating, just now realizing only ten inmates were in the room, him included, forcing him to wonder what happened to the other inmates as there were certainly more than ten led deep into the facility.
Heller caught the movement and chuckled, his tone dripping with amusement. “Don’t think about bolting, Matroni. Doors behind you? Sealed. And these walls here?” He rapped his knuckles against the metal plating on either side of the group. A low, almost imperceptible hum resonated in the air. “They’re letting out a constant vibration. Get too close, and you’ll be introduced to a nice dose of vertigo. Drop you right on your ass. Long enough for us to chain you back up. Trust me, it’s hilarious to watch.”
One of the other inmates, a burly man with tattoos snaking up his neck, muttered a curse under his breath, his fists clenched. Heller’s smirk widened, and his hand shot to his side, pulling out a sleek black remote. He held it up, the dim light reflecting off its polished surface.
“Now, here’s the fun part,” Heller said. He pressed a button, and the collars around their necks emitted a faint click before falling away with a dull thud to the floor. Several inmates instinctively reached up to touch their throats, the absence of the weight foreign and unsettling. Heller gathered the discarded collars and placed them on a rusted table at the side of the room with deliberate care.
Dean’s hand twitched, his fingers curling into a fist. The guard wasn’t more than ten feet away, his baton hanging loosely from his belt, his back partially turned. For a brief, tantalizing moment, Dean considered it—charging the guard, snapping his neck, and seeing how far he could get without the collar restricting him.
But he stopped himself, his instincts overriding the impulse. {Not yet,} he thought, his eyes narrowing as he studied the remote in Heller’s hand and the guards positioned around the room. {I don’t know the layout. Don’t know their rotations. Hell, I don’t even know if there’s a roof I can climb out of. Not that planning is my usual style, but still. This isn’t the time.}
Dean relaxed his posture, tilting his head slightly as though he were merely bored. Heller turned back toward them, the smirk never leaving his face.
“There we go. No collars, no restrictions. You’re free to fight, free to bleed, free to die. But here’s the kicker,” Heller said, pointing a finger like a teacher giving a lesson. “This isn’t just about survival. It’s about making an impression. We’re always watching, always evaluating. You put on a good show? Maybe you earn yourself a few points in the system. Fuck up?” He shrugged, the gesture as indifferent as tossing out a broken toy. “Well, no one’s going to miss you.”
The guard’s laughter echoed in the chamber, mingling with the low hum of the vibrating walls. Dean glanced at the other inmates, their faces a mix of fear, confusion, and anger.
Among them, something caught his eye—a short woman, barely over four feet tall, standing with her arms crossed and her sharp gaze darting from the guards to the surrounding inmates. Dean blinked, trying to process what he was seeing. Not only was she a woman—a rarity in itself in this grim pit of testosterone and violence—but a dwarf. It struck him like a punch to the gut. The odds for survival here already seemed slim, but for her, they were microscopic.
{What the hell is she doing here?} he thought, his brow furrowing.
The dwarf woman caught him staring and shot him a glare so fierce he almost took a step back. Her fiery brown eyes practically dared him to say something. Dean quickly shifted his gaze, masking his surprise with a nonchalant expression.
“Hey,” one of the inmates spoke up, his voice trembling with barely concealed fear. He was a lanky man with hollow cheeks and a tattoo of an anchor on his neck. “If the collars are off, what are the rules? Are we… Are we supposed to kill each other, or what?”
Heller turned slowly, his smirk widening. He clapped his hands together, the sound echoing ominously. “Rules? Oh, sweet summer child, there are no rules for this round. Just try not to die.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. The lanky man’s face drained of color, his anchor tattoo seeming to sink deeper into his skin.
“Now,” Heller continued, pointing toward the pit below, “you lot are going to jump down there. Nice and simple. Let’s see who’s got the guts for a fifteen-foot drop.”
Dean stepped closer to the edge, scanning down into the pit, cataloging its layout: the cracked floor littered with dark stains he didn’t need to guess at, the faint shadows cast by overhead lights, the metal grates overhead providing a slim, distant glimpse of freedom. If he has to fight, it would be here. But if he had to escape… that was a problem for another time, for now he looked to the drop he would have to do, the distance wasn’t impossible to handle, but it would still jolt the knees on impact—especially if you didn’t know how to land.
“Fifteen feet?” one of the inmates muttered, a stocky man with a shaved head and a deep scar running from his temple to his jaw. “You trying to kill us before the damn fight starts?”
Heller grinned. “What’s the matter? Afraid of a little jump? Don’t worry, the concrete’s softer than your skulls. Well, maybe not yours, Matroni.” Heller gestured mockingly, eyeing Dean as he stepped back from the edge. After a minute of hesitation from the group, Heller shouted, “Come on, ladies, I haven’t got all night!”
The scarred man with the shaved head went first, his movements deliberate. He crouched slightly, pushing off with a grunt and landing heavily in the pit below. The thud of his heels echoed off the concrete, but he stayed upright, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the height.
Dean followed, barely sparing a thought for the others. He leapt with practiced ease, bending his knees on impact and tucking into a roll. The rough concrete scraped against his arms, but he rose fluidly, scanning the pit. His gaze briefly locked with the dwarf woman’s. Her sharp eyes were keen and calculating, though her face remained impassive. She was observing everything—just like he was.
“Are you lot always this slow, or is today special?!” Heller snapped, his grin turning to a sneer as he gestured impatiently to the next inmate in line. “Or should I push you in myself?.”
The gangly man hesitated at the edge, his lips moving in a silent prayer. His hollow cheeks twitched as he tried to steel himself. When he finally jumped, his landing was far from graceful—his feet slipped out from under him, sending him sprawling onto the cracked floor with a yelp. Dean didn’t bother helping him up, instead stepping aside as the next inmate prepared to jump.
“Ignitha, did they recruit you from the ballet?” Heller drawled, leaning forward with mock interest. “You land like that in the fight, and we’ll have to scrape you up with a spatula.”
The gangly man scrambled to his feet, his face flushed with embarrassment. Another inmate muttered under his breath, “This is bullshit,” his voice low and venomous. Dean barely glanced at him. Allies weren’t his concern; survival was.
The dwarf woman stepped forward next, her small frame dwarfed by the edge of the pit. She looked down, her lips pressing into a thin line as she calculated her jump. Heller’s laughter rang out, sharp and mocking. “What’s the matter, tiny? Need a booster seat? Should we lower a rope for you?”
Before she could retort, the scarred man quickly ran back up the wall with the help of another inmate, climbing up to help. His voice was gruff but not unkind. “Come on. I’ll lower you.”
Her eyes flicked to him, suspicion flickering across her face. “I don’t need your help,” she snapped, but the hesitation in her voice betrayed her.
“Sure you don’t,” the man replied, his tone steady. “But you’ll break something if you fall wrong. You’ve got a better chance in there than up here with this asshole.” He jerked his chin toward Heller.
After a beat, she sighed and nodded begrudgingly. Climbing onto his shoulders, she braced herself against his head. “If you drop me, I’ll bite your damn ear off,” she warned.
The scarred man chuckled dryly. “Fair enough.”
He crouched at the edge, flipping to hang off it, carefully holding on while she climbed down his muscular body until she too dangled from his feet, after a moment, she let go and dropped the last few feet into another inmate’s arms with a grunt, whom she gave a sharp glare, as if to say “how dare you” with her eyes. Getting sat on the ground, she dusted herself off and shot a second glare back to both men as the bald one landed back in the Pit once more. “Don’t get any ideas about being my knights in shining armor.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” the bald one replied, clapping his hands together and stretching his fingers.
The rest of the group followed, their landings a mix of clean execution and painful mistakes. A stocky man with tattoos grunted as he hit the floor, rolling onto his side with a grimace. Another inmate hesitated too long and had to be shoved by the guards, landing awkwardly and cursing as he clutched his knee.
Dean ignored the chaos, his attention fixed on the pit itself. The air felt heavier here, the smell of rust and blood saturating his senses. He could feel faint vibrations beneath his feet, like the thrum of a distant machine. The walls loomed high above, jagged metal cages enclosing the arena like a mouth of iron teeth. Scattered around the Pitt were piles of debris, scraps, metals, bricks. Odd objects to be found and what he could only assume would be used for fights. Fair fights didn’t seem to be their goal.
“Lovely,” Dean muttered under his breath, his gaze shifting to the grated levels of the stadium above. Nothing but shadows for now, the only things watching them in here were a handful of guards and cameras which he could now see stationed along the Pit.
Heller’s voice snapped him back to the present. “Alright, everyone’s down. Try not to look so thrilled, yeah? You’re making me feel unappreciated.” His grin was sharp and humorless as he gestured towards the opposite side of them. “Here he comes.”
Dean followed Heller’s gesture toward the far end of the pit. The shadows seemed to deepen there, pooling unnaturally as if the light itself refused to venture closer. The air grew thick with an eerie silence, broken only by the distant hum of machinery and the faint shuffle of feet.
The other inmates shifted nervously, forming a loose circle in the center of the pit. Some muttered prayers, others curses, their voices low and trembling. The dwarf woman, who had been steadfast in her defiance moments before, now scanned the shadows with a hawk’s intensity, her small frame taut like a coiled spring.
“What the hell’s supposed to happen?” one inmate whispered, a lanky man with a chipped tooth. He glanced around wildly, his breathing erratic.
Before anyone could answer, a sound like a heavy thud reverberated through the pit. The lanky man staggered, his head snapping back as if struck by an unseen fist. He hit the ground with a grunt, clutching his nose, blood seeping through his fingers.
“What the hell?” another inmate yelled, stepping back as if to escape an invisible force.
The air shifted again. This time, a stocky man with a crude snake tattoo on his forearm was sent sprawling to the ground, a red mark blooming on his jaw. He sat up dazed, his mouth opening and closing as though he couldn’t comprehend what had just happened.
Dean narrowed his eyes, scanning the dimly lit arena. The other inmates scrambled to make sense of the chaos, their panic mounting with every hit. Another man crumpled to the floor, clutching his stomach, the sickening sound of a rib cracking audible even over the frantic murmurs.
Dean’s mind worked furiously. There was no weapon, no projectile, no visible attacker. Then he noticed it—a faint ripple in the air, almost imperceptible, like heat waves rising from asphalt. His eyes followed the distortion as it weaved between the inmates, striking another before disappearing into the gloom.
“An invisible fighter,” Dean muttered under his breath, his voice carrying a note of reluctant admiration.
The revelation sent the group into disarray. Inmates swung blindly at the air, their movements frantic and uncoordinated. The dwarf woman sidestepped one of the flailing punches, her expression darkening as she hissed, “Watch it, moron! You’re going to take out your own people.”
Another ripple, another hit—this time the bald man who had helped the dwarf down earlier. He staggered but managed to stay on his feet, his teeth bared in frustration. “Where the hell is he?” he shouted, his voice echoing off the jagged walls.
Dean’s gaze remained locked on the subtle distortions. It wasn’t perfect; the attacker’s movements betrayed him when he shifted too quickly or came into contact with the light spilling from above. And then it clicked—he wasn’t invisible all the time. There was a pattern, a rhythm.
“He’s holding his breath!” The dwarf snapped. “That’s his trick. He can’t stay invisible if he exhales.”
“Lovely,” Dean muttered, his lips curving into a faint smirk. His mind raced, weighing options.
“The hell is the elf on about?” An inmate quetioned, not able to see the occasional ripple, however he was even more confused when Dean placed his hand on his back, a pop coming from it with what felt like a cigerette burn causing the inmate to step away from him and ask “The hell are you on about?!”
{Shit.} Dean thought as he looked down to the palm of his hand, not even a small bit of smoke coming from it, completely clear of the normal effects pre-incarcaration. Pre-humming collar. He could have turned the tables in seconds—one touch was all it would have taken, he could have catapulted his teammate into the rippled air, straight into the bastard. But the familiar spark of power wasn’t there. His frustfration flared. {Still suppressed, or maybe it needs time to reset after the collar. Either way, I’m flying blind.}
Another inmate went down with a sickening crunch, his arm bent at an unnatural angle. The invisible assailant was toying with them, picking them off one by one like a predator thinning a herd.
“Shit,” Dean growled, his fists clenching. He glanced at the others, their terror palpable. {I can’t rely on this bunch of scared rabbits. If I don’t figure this out, we’re all dead.}
Then came the moment he’d been waiting for—a shimmer, just at the edge of his vision, betraying the attacker’s position as he prepared to strike. Dean’s voice cut through the panic.
“On me! Now!” he barked, his tone sharp and commanding.
The inmates hesitated, their eyes darting between him and the ripple in the air. The dwarf woman was the first to move, sidling up beside him, her fists raised. “What’s your plan, genius?” she demanded, her voice low.
Dean didn’t answer immediately. His eyes locked onto the shimmer as it darted closer. He pointed to the bald man, who was clutching his side but still standing. “You,” Dean said. “Take a swing at the air. Ten feet out, right there.”
The bald man blinked, confused, but obeyed. His punch connected with nothing, but it forced the shimmer to shift. Dean’s lips twitched into a grin. “There,” he said, jerking his chin toward the distortion. “Aim for the ripple.”
Another inmate took a swing, and this time there was a faint grunt—proof they’d hit something. The group began to rally, their panic giving way to determination as they focused their efforts.
The invisible assailant growled, a deep, guttural sound that sent a chill down Dean’s spine. Then, with a burst of movement, the attacker revealed himself—a towering man, his muscular frame glistening with sweat. His skin was crisscrossed with scars, and his eyes burned with a feral intensity.
“You’re smarter than you look,” the man snarled, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. “But it won’t save you.”
Dean’s smirk didn’t waver. “Maybe not,” he replied, his tone casual causing the assaliant to laugh.
The fight began in chaos, a storm of fists, shouts, and fear. The towering assailant—visible now—charged like a bull, his heavy frame moving faster than seemed possible. His first swing connected with the lanky man, whose anchor tattoo had barely caught the dim light before he was sent flying. The crack of bone snapping echoed through the pit, and the man crumpled, his chest caved inward, motionless.
The remaining inmates scrambled, scattering to avoid the assailant’s unstoppable momentum. Dean ducked low, rolling behind a pile of debris to avoid being crushed under the brute’s charge. {Holy fuck}. The bald man followed, his eyes darting between Dean and the assailant as he tried to catch his breath.
“His punches,” the bald man muttered, wiping blood from his lip, “they’re not normal.”
“No shit,” Dean growled, peeking out from cover. The assailant had turned, his massive shoulders heaving as his gaze scanned for his next target. His skin glistened unnaturally, almost like polished stone. One of the remaining inmates, a wiry man with a makeshift shiv, lunged at the brute’s side, aiming for the ribs. {We’ve been here a day, how the hell did he get a shiv?} Dean thought as the blade snapped as if it had struck steel.
The assailant grinned, his teeth bared like an animal’s. He turned and delivered a backhanded blow that sent the wiry man skidding across the pit, his shiv clattering uselessly to the floor.
The air in the pit was stifling, heavy with the mingling scents of sweat, blood, and rust. Each time the brute’s fists connected with flesh or concrete, the sound reverberated like a hammer striking an anvil, sharp and jarring. The dim light from above flickered erratically, casting jagged shadows that seemed to dance along the cracked walls. Every shout, grunt, and crash echoed unnervingly, amplified by the hollow metallic hum of the enclosure.
Dean ducked behind a pile of debris, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. The ground beneath him trembled faintly with each step the brute took, a rhythmic vibration that seemed to sync with the pounding of his heart. Around him, the scattered inmates scrambled for cover, their movements a frantic ballet of survival.
“It’s not just the invisibility,” Dean muttered. “When he’s visible, he’s… indestructible.”
The dwarf woman, crouched nearby, narrowed her eyes, her sharp gaze flitting between the assailant and the scattered inmates. “No, not indestructible,” she said, her tone clipped but measured. “Only when he’s breathing. Didn’t you see? He flinched when that guy punched him earlier, when he was invisible.”
Dean frowned, recalling the shimmer and the grunt. “You think he can only be hurt when he’s holding his breath?”
She nodded, her expression grim. “Yeah. That’s his weak point. We just have to make him invisible.”
“Great,” Dean said dryly, “all we have to do is fight an indestructible giant until he decides to hold his breath. Perfect.”
The assailant roared, charging another inmate—a young woman with cropped hair and wild eyes. She tried to sidestep, but his hand shot out, grabbing her by the neck. With a sickening crunch, he hurled her into the nearest wall, her body crumpling lifelessly to the ground, though it’s questionable if she was even alive when she hit the wall or if she died from the force of the throw on her spine.
The dwarf woman cursed under her breath, her fists clenching. “We don’t have time for sarcasm. Baldy, what can you do?”
The bald man hesitated, then extended his hand. A faint shimmer of heat rose from his palm, like the distortion above a flame. “I can make stuff really hot. Not fire or anything, just heat.”
The dwarf’s sharp eyes narrowed. “Good. Heat his damn lungs when he’s invisible. Force him to breathe out.”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Not a bad plan, but how do we keep him busy while Baldy here gets in range?”
“You,” she snapped, her tone brooking no argument. “You’re fast. Distract him. I’ll help where I can.”
Dean glanced at her, then at the bald man, before sighing. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”
The assailant had turned his attention to another inmate, a burly man trying to fend him off with wild swings. The brute caught the man’s wrist mid-punch and twisted it until the sickening snap of bone filled the air. The man screamed, only to have his head smashed into the ground moments later.
“Now!” the dwarf hissed.
Dean darted forward, staying low as he weaved through the debris. The assailant caught sight of him and roared, his fists slamming into the ground where Dean had just been. Dust and shards of concrete exploded upward, but Dean didn’t stop. He darted around the brute, throwing rocks and debris to keep his attention.
The dwarf woman moved in tandem, keeping to the shadows and using her small size to stay unnoticed. She picked up a shard of metal and hurled it at the assailant’s head. It clanged harmlessly off his temple, but it was enough to make him glance her way, giving Dean a moment to dart behind him and deliver a hard kick to the back of his knee. The brute stumbled but didn’t fall.
“Baldy, now!” the dwarf shouted.
The bald man had crept close, his hand outstretched. The air around him shimmered with heat as he focused on the assailant’s chest. The brute’s expression twisted, his massive chest rising and falling erratically. He let out a guttural growl and turned to swing at the bald man, but Dean darted in, not thinking, going purely on instinct, throwing his hand on the assailant’s bicept that was rearing back to swing and…
BOOM!!
The bald man found himself being tossed off his feet nearly a meter, a hot force having shoved the breath out of him. Gasping, he peered back, curious what had just happened to find Dean in the place he and their opponent had been but their opponent wasn’t there. He too had been tossed nearly a meter back, himself.
“Blood?” The dwarf questioned as she too stood shocked, not sure what to do, having seen the red liquid fly around the three when the explosion occured.
“Fuckin’ finally!” Heller let out with scoff.
“AUGHA!” The assailant raored as he arched his back for a moment before falling into a fetal possition, holding onto his arm. His skin singed on his chest and face, his hair half burned off, and his bicept, where Dean had touched him, was gone, his arm only hanging on by some sinew and the bones, all the flesh seemingly gone.
“Ugha! Fuck yeah!” Dean called out, doing a celebritory hip thrust. “We’re about to be bitchin’ now!”
“You.. Could just blow him up that whole time?” The dwarf questioned, confused by why this wasn’t brought up a moment ago during their planning.
Dean turned to her, still grinning, but the smirk quickly faded as he opened his mouth to respond and stumbled, his legs wobbling beneath him. A wave of nausea rolled over him, and he caught himself against a jagged piece of metal sticking up from the floor.
“I… didn’t know I could,” Dean admitted, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. His eyes darted to his hand, which was trembling uncontrollably, a faint red glow pulsating from the palm. He flexed his fingers, feeling a strange, residual warmth. “Guess the collar suppressed it too much. First time it’s come back.”
The dwarf raised an eyebrow, her arms crossed as she glanced between Dean and the smoldering, writhing brute. “Well, it’s nice of you to figure that out now, but maybe try giving us a heads-up next time before you go playing bomb squad.”
Dean groaned, pushing himself upright. “Not like I had time to workshop it. I saw a chance, and boom—literally.”
The bald man staggered to his feet, coughing and shaking his head. “You could’ve warned me! I thought I was dead! What the hell was that?”
“Eaftousia,” Heller said with a bemused smirk, leaning casually on the edge of the pit above them. “Guess Matroni here’s got himself a nice little party trick. You all should be grateful—you’d be paste if it wasn’t for him.”
“Grateful?” the dwarf snapped, her hands clenched into fists. “That blast almost took us all out!”
“Hey, I didn’t ask to be the hero here,” Dean retorted, shrugging. “It’s not my fault this guy”—he gestured toward the fallen assailant—“didn’t get the memo about me being a ticking time bomb.”
The assailant let out another guttural growl, his ruined arm twitching as he struggled to push himself upright. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the cracked concrete, but his eyes burned with fury and pain.
“Oh, come on,” Dean muttered. “How is he still alive?”
The dwarf clicked her tongue, glaring at the brute. “He’s holding on by sheer spite. That’s the only explanation.”
Heller’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Oh, he’s not done yet. Let me make this crystal clear, kiddos: you don’t stop until the bastard stops breathing. Permanently.”
The assailant’s breathing was labored, each wheezing gasp rattling in his chest. Yet he still moved, his remaining hand gripping the floor as he dragged himself toward the nearest piece of debris.
The bald man’s eyes widened. “He’s trying to grab something—stop him!”
Dean and the dwarf exchanged a glance. She nodded sharply and darted forward, her small frame moving with surprising speed. Dean followed close behind, his legs still shaky but functional, surpassing her quickly. The brute swiped at the ground, his fingers curling around a jagged shard of metal.
Before he could wield it, another inmate leaped onto his back, wrapping her arms around his neck and locking her legs against his torso. “Get the hell down!” she snarled, pulling with all her migh, though it appeared to be in vain.
Dean seized the opportunity, planting his foot against the brute’s ruined arm and shoving hard. The assailant roared, the combination of pain and pressure forcing him onto his side. The shard of metal clattered from his grip before he raised it into his side, peircing through himself and stabbing the woman that had jumped on his back.
Dean hesitated upon seeing this, his mind racing, almost gaining respect for someone willing to sacrifice themselves for the win. The power coursing through him was wild and unpredictable—he had no idea how to control it, let alone aim it. But there wasn’t time to think. If the brute regained his strength, they were all dead.
He crouched, placing his hand firmly against the brute’s chest.
“Finish it.” The impaled woman whispered as Dean’s heart thudded in his chest, locking eyes with the her. Her sharp gaze darted from him to the brute and back, her lips pressing into a tight line. The bald man crept closer, his hands raised, heat radiating faintly from his palms. The air crackled with the promise of violence, every sound heightened—the rasp of the brute’s breath, the plaps of feet on concrete, the distant hum of the walls.
The brute staggered forward, blood oozing from the mangled stump of his arm. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, each gasp of air rattling like the final notes of a broken instrument. Dean could see the fury in his eyes, a primal determination to take at least one more life before the fight ended.
Dean clenched his fists, his gaze flicking to the bald man, who gave a curt nod. The brute inhaled sharply, his hulking frame trembling with effort as he prepared to charge.
“Wait,” Dean muttered under his breath, holding up a hand to stay the others. His eyes locked on the brute’s chest, timing the rise and fall of each breath. The seconds stretched, every sound around him falling away as he focused. One beat. Two. The brute sucked in another breath, his muscles coiling like a spring.
“Now!” Dean roared, launching himself forward. The heat surged through him again, brighter and more intense than before. This time, he gritted his teeth and focused, willing the energy to stay contained until the last possible moment.
The explosion was more controlled this time, but it was no less devastating. Dean felt the surge of power radiate from his palm, the heat searing through his arm like liquid fire. The blast hit the brute square in the chest, collapsing it inward with a sickening crunch. The force sent a spray of blood and bone fragments into the air, splattering the nearby walls and coating the cracked floor.
For a moment, the pit was silent, save for the faint hiss of steam rising from the smoldering wound. The brute’s body convulsed once, twice, before falling still. His eyes, once burning with fury, glazed over as his massive frame slumped against the ground, having squashed the impaled woman on his back like a tube of paste with bits of internals escaping from her orphaces.
Dean staggered back, his legs trembling as he fought to stay upright. The remaining inmates stared in wide-eyed horror, their faces pale and streaked with grime. Above them, the dim light flickered, casting erratic shadows that danced like ghosts on the blood-streaked walls.
Heller clapped slowly, the sound echoing through the pit. “Well, well, Matroni. Looks like you’re not just dead weight after all. Shame about the others, though.” His grin widened. “Guess you’ll have some vacancies in your little crew. Better choose your friends wisely.”
Dean glared up at Heller, his body aching, his breaths ragged. “Did I win?” he muttered, the words barely audible. His lips curled into a faint smirk, but the effort it took to stay upright was draining fast.
Heller’s slow clap echoed like a hammer in Dean’s skull. His grin widened, teeth glinting in the dim light. “Don’t go thinking this is over. You’ve still got a long way to fall.”
Dean’s knees buckled. The pit tilted sideways, the flickering light overhead dimming into darkness. The last thing he heard was the faint hum of the vibrating walls, almost like laughter, as his vision faded completely.