"When you are stuck in a place like this, where everything is reiterated"
"It would be as if you are stuck in a time loop, and everything plays over and over again"
"The only instinct in your head, - will only be one, - SURVIVE-"
There was a loud CLANK, and the sound of an iron pulled through a rail filled the air stopping with another CLANK. The door had opened as a bawl of yell filed into the room.
Simma looked at the red ribbon he had tied around his fist, folding his finger to ensure that it was balanced. He sat with his back facing the door, his head swirling in thoughts.
"I just hope it is a worthy opponent, fit to carry my anger this time"
Well that was the one thing he was good at fighting, he had learnt it the bad way. A way that no one would like to experience, a way that might break some people.
He stepped out to meet a crowd of people standing around in a circle, all yelling at the top of their voices hailing the one called THE BULL.
Simma always saw this as a waste of time and good potential, but this time, though his twentieth time of fighting in the dirt Arena he has a reason, a very crucial one at that.
As Simma stepped in, four men carried out a boy from the crowd. He was struggling to breathe he was covered in suit and blood.
A heavy 'BOOO' mixed with a louder stream of hails followed Simma until he reached the stage barricaded with the crowd standing around a drawn circle on the floor, he knew it was going to be a dirty fight.
The crowd stood around the circle forming an arch, the space left was for their Leader who sat their to entertain himself as well through the fight. They titled him the Honcho, he sat their together with his adviser (hand of the Honcho) and trusted emps.
"The place felt more like an empty room crowded with people than anything else—dimly lit, with punching bags swaying at the far end. They called it the Dirt Arena, a grim space where outcasts fought for scraps of extra food, used as nothing more than entertainment."
"HA-HA-HA-HA" came a peal of laughter that could bleed off one ear, the voice was raw and coarse and sent thrills through the people watching. It was the Bull he was large about times two the size of Simma.
He was a massive man—broad-chested, with thick arms and solid legs that made his size impossible to ignore. His biceps were heavy, and his thighs stretched the fabric of his pants with every step.
A long, plaited beard hung from his jaw, and his shaggy hair fell around his face in uneven strands, giving him a rough, unpolished look.
"YOU MAY SHAKE HANDS"
Simma stretched out his hand to shake, as it was the normal routine before starting the fight but-
SMACK-.
The huge guy, with the back of his arm, hit him and sent him flying, he crashed into a wall far behind and it cracked. Chunks of bricks came falling off together with Simma who landed with a thud on the floor.
There was a loud 'UUUUUUUUUUUUUGH' by the crowd as if they felt for Simma but they rather enjoyed it.
"He is going to ever regret doing that" he mumbled, and without further delay launched at him as though impulsive, the crowd made way as the Bull rushed at Simma as well arms up and ready to land a defying punch to take him out for good.
But Simma had leapt off the ground- rotating like a barrel- slipping through the punch as he grabbed the only thing he had aimed for, His beard. He pulled his beard down and slid through in-between his legs with his beard still under his clenches.
And YANK.
He pulled his head through his two legs sending him spinning crazily and landing heavily on the floor.
He skidded to the other side of the circle, waiting for Bull to get back on his feet. Of course, he knew what would come next—an enraged, fully unleashed version of the huge guy.
That was the plan all along. He knew that once Bull got angry, he would fight with rage and muscle—not with sense.
"Mph mm" Bull grunted angrily, as he stood up and flipped his head like a bulldog, this time, he was going to snap Simma into two or so he thought.
Anger built in him like a dark clouded storm he aimed for him jumping off the floor- creating a huge dent where he stood - both arms on the air- folded into a fist- ready to smash simma into the floor- and …
He found himself soaring height into the air, his vision blurry, a sharp pain throbbing at his jaw and three of his teeth flying alongside him.
Simma had waited for him and timed his move perfectly, anyways, thanks to the training he has been receiving it really did come in handy, he simply shoved himself aside and gathering enough power landed him an upper cult that sent him up into the air.
The Bull crashed onto the floor unconscious as the noise from the crowd dwindled, and slowly many began to leave the place. Their hero had fallen.
But then there was a loud hail from the remaining crowd
"There you go boy" Came a man's voice, he tossed a bag of food at Simma "You earned it".
Simma walked toward the bag of food that had been thrown to him.
"Intriguing... What's your name, boy?" the honcho asked, stroking his beard, his eyes fixed intently on Simma.
"Simma," he replied flatly, not even pausing to think. All that occupied his mind in that moment was the food. He was starving.
"I think he's ready," the honcho said, still eyeing the boy with interest. "He's got intellect—and that might be exactly what we need to keep the day-watch secure. Prepare him for the Compel."
At those words, the honcho rose and walked away, and a quiet murmur swept through the room. Everyone knew what that meant. Simma would be set free from the shackles where he was treated and trained like a slave like other outcast that are not yet compelled.
Simma picked up the bag and made his way back to the cellar. But the anger inside him hadn't faded. He blamed himself for not being there when his sister was injured. He hated himself for letting her fight in the Dirt Arena.
She hadn't fought Bull, but even so, Simma had needed something to hit—and he had hit it. Yet it did nothing to ease the rage in him.
He returned to their cell with the food. His sister was there, lying on the lower bunk they shared. One thing was certain:
the vampires didn't care.
They kept males and females together, and when anyone was being bullied, the guards did nothing—sometimes even laughed, treating it as entertainment.
The cell was cramped. A bunk sat against the right wall. The rest of the space was taken by a foam bench and a small sink fixed to the opposite corner. Beside the sink, a narrow door led to the lavatories.
Other than that—and the rusted, crooked camera mounted near the ceiling—there was nothing else in the cell.
"How are you feeling now, Sonja?" Simma asked, glancing at her as she sat up.
Her crimson hair was wild and unbrushed, hanging loosely around her face. She looked beautiful, but pale—not from the injury, but from hunger. No one here was treated like they mattered.
A bruise marked her forehead, staining her pale skin with a faint red hue. Her shoulder, however, had taken the worst of it—a deep wound where the flesh had been badly torn.
"You have to stop treating me like I'm dying, Si. It's just a scratch," Sonja said with a soft smile, trying to erase the worry from his face. "Come on, let's eat."
Simma and Sonja were just about to dig into the extra meal when a female voice echoed through the room.
"The sun is set. Grid protocols set. Opening grids now."
It was the same voice as always—routine, automatic, almost lifeless.
A low hissing sound followed as large metal plates began sliding open from the windows, revealing a crimson sky, and the scattered clouds lit by the last dying rays of the sun. A breeze of cool, natural air drifted in, soft and unfamiliar.
That was the time when everyone in the city came out.
It was the only time that they were free—to feel the air, to feel their environment—because once they stepped out in the sun, they would die, since everyone in the Haydes were vampires.
Everyone except the outcasts, which Simma happened to be one of.
All he knew was that he found himself there. He had no past memories whatsoever of his life. He was raised there, taught how to fight right there. He was like a slave, along with the other outcasts.
All he knew and loved so much was his sister, Sonja. They had been placed in the same foster unit, and now they saw themselves as family.
They went through every bit of the hell the city put them through—together.
They were forced to train, and whenever the city felt threatened, it was the outcasts who defended it, as long as it was in the daytime.
The Haydes was a small town that had been rebuilt from the ashes of the Bloodbath, which had mostly affected them. It was run by tyrants—vampires—nicknamed Grumms.
They rose to power by imprisoning anyone who wasn't a vampire and using them for their own benefit. These people with powers—they called them outcasts. Simma was one of them.
It had been a long, tiring day for Simma. The night etched itself into the world, as always, spreading sleep across the city as it passed.
Simma had been lost in a mist of thoughts. The honcho's voice kept ringing in his head over and over again:
"Prepare him for the Compel."
It gave him a strange feeling. Every outcast was usually happy to become a Compelled.
No reason other than that once an outcast becomes a Compelled, it's like moving up to another level—given a room to sleep in, women to lie with, meals that kept them strong. So if anything happened during the day, they'd have the strength to defend the Haydes.
He had seen the Compelled ones. It was like their love for the vamps only grew stronger. They would do anything—anything—to protect them. They forgot the pain and the brutal training. They forgot their own kind—the weak ones left behind.
No. He wasn't willing to do that.
He hadn't forgotten how they would always drag those without powers—the humans—and use them as playthings. Afterward, they would feed on them, draining every last drop of blood from their veins and cursing their hearts into everlasting stillness.
All he wanted was to get out of this hellhole—and maybe, just maybe—come back for revenge.
He couldn't help it, but he knew that something was wrong during that process of compelling. Though he didn't know what it was exactly, he had a feeling.
How could someone forget how they were treated like shit, and then turn to defend those who treated them that way—forgetting their own kind?
He kept thinking until he drifted into an uncomfortable sleep, one that threw him into another dimension—an unstable one.