Chapter 9: 9. Approach

After ten steps, another door greets me. This time, accompanied by a small glass eye peering from its upper centre. Taking two paces forward, I stare straight at it.

"Bradamore de Blanchet. Status: Civilian. Criminal activity: None. You may enter".

Strange. Hearing those words together. With something like a peculiar reluctance, I watch the metal door slide out of view. 

Well.

It looks like everything is the same as before. On a decorative level, it's the same 'Puterelle'. 

Neon purple lights, check.

Neo-Arthurian music, check.

A random assortment of romantically inclined women and men on the sidelines engaging in some questionable activity, also check. Their existence, though neither impressive nor amicable, is tolerable. 

Hah.

I feel unbecoming—damn churls. The light. The overpowering sound. All this commotion and life around me. It feels strong. As if drowning out my own soul. Drawing me into an endless pit of mediocrity. 

"Doxy's and womanisers."

I can't afford to lose my composure this early. Much less over something so trivial. Now, my breathing comes and goes, clearer, better, faster, more purposefully in its direction, coursing through every crevice of my body and imbuing it with energy. 

A second later and I'm marching upon the carpeted lavender. 

My destination is set.

Upon the inconspicuous double door at the very end, I head. Wading through the space between occupied sofas. A slow half-minute, and I'm there. Before me now stands a bouncer, his arms augmented with a reflective metal plate, his eyes a luminescent white adorned with black sclera.

"You dressing up for Halloween or a fight?"

He's new. He doesn't recognise me. He's even looking at me with those concerned eyes, questioning my resolve, reserved for youths with too much hubris.

"The latter. It's not October, is it?"

He scratches his chin.

Intoned in a friendly manner, he mumbles a "Good point." 

Curiously enough, there's no further resistance. Whatever distress the bouncer may have is ill-conveyed. 

"Here you go." 

There is no judgement in his voice.

He pushes the double doors open without further delay.

I look ahead—everything's visible—a shiver—a momentary relapse. Now the cold is gone. During a fraction of a second, some incomprehensible fire replaces the once sullen frost I felt. 

Shit.

Chock right-centre in the upcoming room is a large empty square. A space no more significant than 100m2. That, for all intents and purposes, will be where I'll fight soon enough. 

In my right palm is the continued pressure of fingernail against skin. In my throat is the ragged and heavy cycle of air. To see something like this is just...

Exciting, to say the least.

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I move into the area, past the sofas lined to watch the event, shuffle into the left corner of the overall space, and sit down on a red seat, not unlike a miniaturised table in terms of shape, leaning on the counter.

"Hey". I greet the waiter over the glass tabletop. "One plate of hot chicken, pickles and a glass of elderflower lemonade, please."

"Table number?"

"I'll just have it here."

"Alright."

I decide to watch the empty square in the meantime. Logically, something should come up relatively soon. Especially considering the number of people there is, which amounts to, by my estimate, three dozen. That should signify something is up. No one gathers here if something isn't at the ready.

Precisely why, when the lights suddenly dip, I know things are about to begin. All those neon strips lining the floor, walls and ceiling fade away. In the end, only a squared-shaped light above the centre of the room remains.

But even that won't last. Because the centre of the room will become more than that soon enough. By the count of six seconds, a voice erupts. 

"Ladies and gentlemen! Degenerates and doxies. Knights and wenches! Welcome to The Puterelle."

The people flare up in cheers, some standing while doing so.

"In about a minute, we'll be presenting the feature event you've all been waiting for! Our one and only famed cage matches!"

Above the centre of the room descends a cage. Four pillars at each corner, gradually brought down by chains. And an accompanying series of focused spotlights following suit.

Not too long afterwards, two figures emerge from the sidelines. 

The one on the left is maybe twenty years of age—a young man. He wears a black hoodie by some unknown brand, his arms covered by fabric, and his feet by sports trainers. 

On the right, someone older. Maybe fifty or so. He has wrinkled skin, one of those brown handlebar moustaches, and is going in completely shirtless.

Both are relatively the same size. The old man's body is visibly toned. Defined by well-kept muscles and scars across the face, chest and arms. 

I'm not one for analysing people, but I'll make an exception for fighters. It's good to be able to size up your opponents. Knowing what fights to pick is more important than being able to.

"Here you go".

The waiter then returns with my order in hand. I nod my thanks, look forward curiously, and munch at a freshly arrived piece of chicken. 

Everyone is silent now. I amusingly wonder when things will start when I receive my answer. Inside the ring steps the older man. He waltzes into the centre, waving at the audience. Meanwhile, his opponent more so just strolls in. I think he is nervous. Bouncing up and down, head turning like a corkscrew, legs unable to contain themselves. 

Novice. 

All too out of place. To be confident enough to fight but nervous enough to be this jittery. Delusional or brave? Calculated or spur of the moment?

I can't tell. I conclude that time will for me.

Fortunately, I learn that the opportunity arrives sooner than usual. In place of any introduction, the two already square off. No theatric establishment of character, no nothing. As a matter of fact, the announcer is missing, too, probably holed off somewhere next to their mic.

Hah. Things have changed, haven't they? 

Well then. While I don't mind a little interview, I can't say this is bad either. I take the situation as a point of entertainment and sip on my cold drink.

 

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