Blood Breakers

The harsh lights of the Arena. The thrum of the crowd. The stinging pain. I breathe out, my hot breath hissing like steam. The figure on the floor does not get up. I raise my bloodied fist in the air and laugh as the crowd cheers.

The harsh lights of the warehouse. The silence, broken only by jeers. They hold me to the wall, my arms are numb, I am useless. The adrenaline is gone and the pain runs through me. This time, they take more than half of my winnings. They say they leave my arms intact so I can win for them again. I spit blood onto the warehouse floor.

The harsh lights of the small apartment. The food is stale, the water is stale, the air is stale. My parents smile in the photo. The tundra that surrounds them is beautiful. The sculpture between them is beautiful, the burnished metal flowing like water, the current enriched with thin lines of carved runes. My father cast the metal and my mother carved the runes. They’re smiling because they’re proud of their work, proud of themselves, proud. Not like me.

Before I left, they taught me some of what they knew. I never felt good at any of it. That’s why I became a fighter, why I left. I regret it.

I stare at the metal. The sheet is blank, uncut, sturdy but without purpose. I see myself dimly reflected in the dull surface. I stare at it, but it tells me nothing. Like a veteran fighter, it waits for me to make the first move. I raise my hammer and strike the chisel. Sparks fly.

Between bouts, between triumphs and humiliations, I work. It becomes the fight I care most about. The metal and I circle each other, exchange blows. Slowly, I am wearing it down, tiring it out, beating it into shape.

Once formless, the metal has taken the shape of a pair of brass knuckles, crude but strong. I polish them, polish them until I can see myself mirrored in them. I smile, and my reflection smiles back at me.

My knowledge is limited, and I feel like I am stumbling through the darkness, but I give them the strongest name I can think of. Carefully, I carve the runes into the facets of the knuckles. They run thin and strong, like old scars. Lo Taikassa Doapasrinn, they read- the Blood Breakers.

I win again. Already they are there, by the ring, the brokers and the gangsters and the bosses. They smile false smiles. I smile a true smile. When the first comes up to congratulate me, I slip on the Blood Breakers. The cool metal feels comfortable on my worn hands.

The movement is practiced, smooth. When the blow connects, the full weight of the swing goes into the knuckles, cracking the extortionist’s head back and sending him crashing back into his colleagues. The crowd screams, both thrilled and terrified. I continue to tear through my former tormentors, every strike a liberation. Soon none remain. I leave, the hot blood dripping from my hands.

I am no longer welcome in the Arena, in the mobster dens, even in my former home. I cannot show myself publicly almost anywhere in the upper levels. But in the welcoming darkness of the Undercity, I have found a new home, a new family. People come to me now. We band together, and together we are stronger, strong enough to escape the bondage of the powerful. The knuckles have become icons, and so my brethren see them as a symbol. They call themselves the Blood Breakers.