One of Us Chapter 1

Trying to get some feedback on a story I’m creating. Here's the first chapter:
What is that smell? 

There’s a certain salinity that surfaces when getting popped in the mouth. A dirty salt that has long lost its savor. Strange thoughts arise when everything is at stake at this time of night. He gained distance from his opponent after receiving the punishing strike. His smaller frame and quicker feet held the advantage in retreat, but little else. The dying street light shone on his cocoa face and bare torso. The sentry he faced off moved against him with the intensity of a sweat inducing nightmare. Arm drawn back, his adversary planned a premature stoppage to this seven round affair. A voice barked before he could fire it off.

“Alright! Round over!”

A guttural voice erupted from the adversary’s throat like magma, as frustration and rancid saliva rained over our protagonist’s bones. He received the baptism, and in response, he  blew a kiss towards his much larger opponent before sauntering toward his corner. He sat on the flimsy stool, shoulders dropping a bit more than he expected, when he heard from a voice in his right ear::

“PRO-TECT yourself. I know you think it’s cute to block with your face, but you won’t be laughing when someone has to scoop you off the ground.” There was a pause, as the strangely ethereal voice softened considerably. “Look, I see you take one more hit like that, I’m stopping it… got it?”

Without breaking his gaze from the opponent across the alley, “You won’t have to,” he spat. “I’ll end it this round. He then turned his head to the right, still not breaking eye contact with his opponent. “I’m going with the stinger strategy,” the pugilist commented, sweat running down his chin.

The voice coated with flesh, blood, and worry reemerged, “You do that, and you could be killed.”

“If I don’t, I’ll definitely lose.” Silence peppered him in that moment more than the accumulated blows of his opponent. He’d have to quip in order to stem the fountain of worry released earlier, but he didn’t have the chance to. Instead a very human voice emerged:

“Be sure your wrists and ankles are coated as well. You don’t want to pop your tendons if you make it out of this thing.”

“Good call… Don’t worry, I’ve got it.”

“You had better,” the voice called out with more resolve.

David rose first, our protagonist, standing just shy of 5’9. His upright stature and combat crafted muscles made him seem taller. Young, but by no means immature. His unrelenting gaze was unwillingly quenched by wells of sorrow, but not sorrow that leads to despair. A sorrow that requires a transmutation of the will to survive at any cost. Black bandages covered brown knuckles ballooned and bruised through bashing the bare hide of his bullish opponent. He wore grey, grease-stained shorts that would be more appropriately incinerated than washed after an altercation like this. Beaten sneakers lay on his feet, leverage points that he would use to strike from.

He then jabbed the air a few times, fists lighter than Darius expected. Yes, our phantom voice has a home. Darius rested in the shadow of his younger brother waiting for him to “finish the fight.”

No guts no glory, huh David? He gripped his knife in case “the worst” (or “a worse” happened). He stared ahead at the behemoth rising.

The beast’s slow ascent in rising wasn’t fear or hesitation, but physical difficulty. There was just so much of him to get up. Minotaurs weren’t frequent visitors to these kinds of fights, but that was changing. However, we won’t dig into that now. A bare-knuckle interspecies brawl is no place to discuss the dimensional politics of immigration. It shouldn’t concern us at the moment. After all, it didn’t concern David. What did concern him, was the never-ending wall of muscle rising inch by inch in front of him. The beast’s hide and fur resembled the color of driftwood. It was a long way from home. Standing on powerful legs, the creature reached a height of greater than eight feet.

Neither of them could hear the drunken jeering of the manipulators and victims of the underworld. They could only hear their own heartbeat as they stood knee deep in their own River Styx, seeing who Charon would ferry away this round.

FIGHT!

Even unguarded, there’s a big difference from a hit that you see coming and one you don’t. The beast didn’t even see David’s approach. It was only when he heard his rib crack that he realized his opponent landed three blows on him. His mind snapped into action, placing both of his hands above his head to crush his opponent. 

Sloppy, he thought, as he missed wide. He felt an intense pain in his leg, as he toppled over. The rain-coated ground would have been a cool reprieve if he didn’t see a foot seeking to end him. With more agility than anyone (even he) expected, he rolled out of the way and back on his feet. His eyes then rested on the warrior ahead. I get it. Matterless blue energy emanated from David’s hands and feet. The human didn’t stay still for long, as the minotaur prepared himself for the rest of his barrage. He blocked the next three blows, which were significantly stronger than anything he felt in the earlier rounds.

He can’t keep this up for long. Just as that thought floated through the creature’s mind, the minotaur found his opening, putting his fist squarely into David’s gut, lifting him off his feet. An immense feeling of pleasure washed over his body, seeing the look of surprise-filtered pain on his opponent’s face. David’s muscles disengaged as he rode upon the minotaur’s fist, pupils going all the way in the back of his head. The minotaur lowered him, without letting him go, drawing back his other arm for a final blow. That is, until he looked at David’s corner, to see the impassive face of his opponent’s trainer looking on. Strange, I’d expect more of a reaction. What’s with that…

There was then an incredible pain that rose from his jaw. And then he couldn’t feel at all. Teeth exploded from his mouth, piercing the air like shrapnel after a grenade detonates. For a moment the minotaur levitated, all 500 pounds of him, as easily as a child playing with a large balloon. 

The minotaur didn’t know exactly what happened, but he realized that he lost. As he was on the downward trajectory to the ground, the last thing he saw was his opponent, with a smoking palm right in the center of his stomach. Oh, I see. 

Then darkness.

*

The worst part of the night. Collecting winnings. It’s not that David had some strange aversion to money. Foolish men would say that money wasn’t important. This didn’t have to do with the moral dilemma of putting his and other people’s bodies on the line for a dollar. After all, the laborer was worthy of his wage. It was the waiting. David stood underneath the wheezing fire of the street lamp, as he waited for Darius to “get them paid.”

The decrepit “ring” (if one could call it that) had transmuted back into an alley. David stood, regretting most of the decisions that led to that night. His entire body became an open sore, aggravated every time the Circle’s winds breathed upon him. April was the worst, strangely duplicitous. Warm in the afternoon sun and punishing when it took its reprieve.

Every passing moment and wind introduced him to a wound he didn’t know he had. Whimpering wasn’t an option. Though he had been a contender in sanctioned violence a moment earlier, any show of weakness drew the manipulators. He had already fought once today. No need for a second squabble. 

*

You get good at doing multiple things at once when you grow up in the Second Circle. That’s how Darius could kept a mental count of the money the fight promoter was planning to give him, while maintaining conversation with him, while assessing if he was trying anything funny, while keeping an eye on his younger brother all at once. Being exposed to the type of men in back alleys was a burden that Darius bore well for the sake of his family, but he took no pleasure in it. As he watched the maggot of a man count stained bills, he knew the currency could have been from anywhere, even places that would make a hardened street fighter avert their gaze. But the transgressions of currency are absolved once you spend it on something righteous. At least that’s what Darius held on to when he had to deal with people that would make his mother hold down her head in shame.

The promoter was spewing something about “David’s ability to pivot,” as he counted out bills. Darius simply nodded knowing he didn’t need to respond in the moment, hoping the counting would stop at some point.

“Oop,” Darius’ train of thought was interrupted by the sly counter. “Lost my spot.” There was a certain glint in his eye that seemed to illuminate the promoter’s entire face. He held a manufactured elegance. Wearing a black peacoat over a dark blue shirt and black slacks, he gripped the bills, his thumb rubbing the face of the president in the center. In spite of his moral deficiencies, one might even say there was something good-looking about him. His pale face had large, brown eyes that looked like they once possessed compassion. Gelled, black hair hung over his face, giving him the appearance of an adolescent alternative star. He couldn’t get away from the yellow teeth though, a classic sign of residence in the Second Circle. He smile practically glowed as he opened his mouth.

“Where was I? 760?”

“720, E,” Darius commented while peering around the corner to look at his brother.

“Pardon?” the counter turned drunkenly towards him.

“You were on 720, not 760.” Darius replied, still not looking him in the eye.

“Really? Well, it won’t harm anyone if I just start over…” his eyes drifted down, as he saw Darius’ rested hand on his blade turn into a grip. With eyes still on the blade, he smiled, and then peered up at Darius from the top of his eyelids. “You know, you’ve never cheated me before Darius. I don’t think you would start now, would you?” With the comment “cheated,” an unearthly rustle emerged from behind E, as though a creature of the deep rested in the opaque alley behind him.

Darius, with an unchanging expression, finally met the counter’s face. His gaze didn’t meet his eyes, but somewhere else on his face, as if sighting a leech that rested in the center of his forehead.

“HAHAHA! 720 it is!” He then counted out four more bills. And said, "there's your $800 dollars friend. You are so cold kid. I fucking love it.” Darius soured, then squeaked out a vanishing smirk. He then grasped the cash from the outstretched hand, and put it in his pocket.

“And for an entertaining fight, here’s 50 more!” slapping Darius’ hand with a bill feeling wrinklier than the others.”

Without looking at it, Darius handed it back to him, “And saying, “The $800 for the win is sufficient.” He then turned his back on the counter.

“What? You don’t like free money?” E called out. He chuckled a bit, and took the bill back, but something in his voice changed as he said, “Darius, wait.”

Gripping his blade more tightly he turned back to him, “Yeah.”

“Don’t you want to schedule the next fight? After your brother’s performance tonight, y’all could get a great payday next time. I mean tonight was good, but I’ve got some ringers coming up” he commented with hands in his pockets, gurgling sounds still coming from behind him.

“Not yet,” Darius stewed, “But I know where to find you, E.” He then turned and stepped from the shadows towards his brother, hearing a woman’s voice saying, “I can’t believe you were going to give him my fifty dollars.”

Whether he was supposed to hear the next part or not, he didn’t know, but without a doubt he heard E simply say, “Investment, my love. Investment.” 

H stepped into the light next to his brother, whose eyes had nearly fallen shut as he waited. “You ready, David?”

“Yup,” the younger replied, walking after his brother, starting their trek home.