A/N: I don't know if I'll continue this story or not at this point. I don't know if it's that good. You be the judge.

xA

FIGHT
┗━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━┛
Adrenaline pulsing through veins
Blood rushes in the folded craze

"Crazy, Crazy!"

Inhale.

Suspended from the wooden rafters swung a leathered cord. An aged bulb refracted off rivulets of crimson that dripped from his chin. Soiled in sweat, the torn wife beater stretched to accommodate the bulk of muscle peppered in bloodstains.

"Again," he growled out.

A deepened scowl formed into the shadowed groves of his face. Those dark eyes glinted with malevolence. He wanted to inflict pain. It was seen in his bowed legs and bone-white knuckles that cracked, as fists clenched.

She took a sure step forward, ready, every move accounted. Calculative, and swift, her movements remained fluid and absent of fear. Lest she end up becoming the victim rather than the victor.

  A muscle spasmed beneath his right arm, the subtlest of movements her eyes zeroed in on. The corded muscles in her legs became taut as her back bowed.

He charged.

His arm swung forward right as she ducked, whirling on the heel of her foot before thrusting out one leg. As the toe of her foot met the back of his knee—a depression in the joint—he dropped to the mat.

Just as quick as he fell, he twisted around and caught her foot in time. With a thwock, her back hit the slick mat, hard.

He wrenched her towards him. "Gotcha!" he snarled.

No, you don't.

He'd just given her a window. Tossing her free leg up the heel of her shoe connected with his chin, the sheer force sending him toppling back with a pained, "oomph!"

"PIN HIM! PIN HIM! PIN HIM!"

She flung her entire weight atop his solid form, using the momentum to shove him into the ground. Just as she wedged a knee up against his sternum, slick pools of black glared in defeat.

He spewed a curse as she bent over, her lips just above the shell of his ear. "If I were a real vaempire, you'd be dead," she hissed, voice sharpened like an arrow aimed straight at his ego.

His nostrils flared, "I'm not losing to a girl!"

Her sense of surroundings slowly shifted back to reality as cheers resounded. "You already have."

Raising her hand into the air, her fingers curled into a fist to indicate the match's end. With her eyes locked onto his she shouted, "Pinned!"

As she relented the crowd ventured closer. The chilled cement that nipped the bed of her palms grounded her before she stood. Just as a sea of faces closed in.

"Oh my gosh, Crazy that was amazing!" A freckled red headed girl known as, "Red" leaped up into the air with a seven year olds exuberance. Her fiery red tresses bounced with an anticipation visibly reserved for Friday nights.

  Always, was she the first kid in attendance.

  "Yes, definitely worth the week's wait!" A blue-eyed fair-skinned boy referred to as "Train"—a classic band the kid was obsessed with—ogled her in awed reverence. As if she were an avenging Angel sent from above, the feeling was disconcerting.

  "Definitely worth the wait yup yup!" A curly-haired girl, "Echo" mirrored the sentiment with a squirrely giggle. Sable ringlets framed the six-year old's cherub face.

  A small smile graced her lips.

These orphans were family. Each possessed their own unique personalities while ranging from a spectrum of ages. To disassociate from the tragedies embroiled, the majority had elected a nickname. Just as she'd donned, preferring the personification rather than a ghost left buried in the past.

   Although her own name was laughable name at best, it suited her for various reasons.

"Crazy, I think you've eternally bruised me."

Crazy looked away from the beaming kids to see her former opponent rising to a stand. His russet face was beaded with sweat, dark eyes glowering. 

Ruffling those sable locks which he tried to dodge, she rolled her eyes. "Work on that arrogance then because it could end up becoming your downfall. You've had some improvement from past fights, Bry, I'll give you that."

He scoffed, slicking back his hair, "Tsk, yeah." As he dragged his hand across a sharp jawline, he stared at the blood smeared on his fingers. "Whatever."

She shook her head with a sigh. It had been three years since the boy arrived to the orphanage. His stereotyped character was too easy to identify, the cockiness often associated to former jocks.

His ego has only increased with age.

"Oh my gosh, Crazy!"

A scrawny, feathery-haired boy burst through the crowd, holding a clipboard in one hand with a pen sticking out of a crooked tooth: York Yalang. At the tender age of ten, the kid was innately bright and of Korean descent, displaying a remarkable inventiveness. Often, he reminded her of a particular child actor from an 80's classic. Everybody affectionately called him "Brainy" as the preferred nickname from, "the mute kid," as he'd carried before she'd come to Edison's.

The trick had been to treat him normal as possible. On his ninth birthday he's break his silence, offering up basic information. A fatal plane crash involving his parents that had led him to being brought to Edison's—now—seven years ago, as the last living kin.

    That same night he'd revealed his name to her yet hadn't used it, since.

Afterward, York became the little brother she looked out for. It was this boost of confidence that had helped him crawl out of his shell, much to everyone's surprise. Nowadays the kid could hardly contain himself with the ideas that spouted out.

"What a scrimmage! That has to be the most intense I've seen, yet!" York's slanted, chocolate-brown eyes crinkled with mirth.

He bounced on the balls of his feet as he held out a notebook. The lined pages listed names scrawled across in blue, splotched ink and graded one of two letters.

S: Satisfactory

N: Needs Improvement.

Her brow furrowed as she jotted down an N in thick print next to Bry O'Peck. Numerous times he'd bragged of beating her when he reached the "legal age", just to take part. However as he neared his eighteenth year, he still didn't appear to take it seriously.

No one did.

"Thanks, Brainy."

"Friday Night Fights" as York called it, had initially been conceived as a makeshift, self-defense course, influenced by an idealistic notion tied to a speculated group called the: "RM", the "Resistance Movement". Purportedly the RM had been a small faction of humans who rebelled long ago against the creatures that ruled from the outside. Yet tangible evidence of this group became a myth eventually lost in the annals of time.

Time itself was a fickle thing. It had brought changes to the kids in the orphanage. Cliques formed, hormones increased, and egos inflated. She'd done her best to foster equality, but there was still resistance.

Her eyes scanned the drab, barren room, save for several rumpled mats and decade-old gym equipment. The entire history of the orphanage had passed through the grapevine of orphans before her. The building had once been Edison's Strategic Boarding School for Boys until it lost funding in the 1929 economic crash. The wealthy Malrowe family would purchase the estate into an orphanage.

  However, over time, the small town's populace dwindled as new cities emerged, leaving the orphanage in the dust of the past. The owner Theodore Malrowe later passed it to his wife Elaine, and their daughter Arlene Malrowe ultimately inheriting it. Rumors had long speculated about a suicide that later ended her parents lives in 1975. Since, the—now—old crone that was Arlene, struggled with depression and addiction, particularly alcoholism concealed from authorities.

Years ago when Crazy had been left to wander the older foundations of the building, she'd stumbled across an old, dilapidated stairway that had led to this, particular cellar.

"Hey, Crazy...?" York's voice instantly pulled her back to the present, his chin angled in question. "Before you zoned out, I was suggesting we add a rule that those who are hesitant shouldn't fight. You know, for the sake of their psychological well-being."

"Oh well," She shook her head mechanically as if a fork had been wedged into her brain. "That I will have to consider. We can't afford that fear to fester here, not with what's waiting out there."

York's eyes shone with understanding, "Gottcha, Teach," He crooked his head to the side as he ran the tip of his pen down the list of rules:

"So, rule # 1: All participants in Fight Fridays must remained disarmed with the exception of stakes that may be used as needed."

She couldn't help but smirk.
With the lack of money around, York introduced the idea of stakes made out of old, wooden crates and plyboards found in the cellar. The wood proved far more durable than the fallen knobbed branches that littered the estate.

"Rule #2: All participants must have agreed to the terms and conditions when subjecting themselves to the exercise.

Rule #3: All participants must be at least the age of fifteen for acceptance. Unless of course, the procedure changes. With the little ones, we might want to think about this.

And... Rule #4: All participants that are reluctant or have concerns, will have a private discussion with Crazy, due to ongoing external threats."

He scribbled this last rule onto the yellowed, worn notebook, tongue crooked in a concentrated act. The notebook was considered his most prized possession.

She tried not to laugh, amused. "As ridiculous as some of the rules are, I'm impressed, Brainy. It's almost like an official sport, now. Kinda brilliant."

York looked up. A full, sheepish grin merged with his crooked teeth. "Thanks, Crazy."

"That what's they call me," she added rather dryly.

York laughed shaking his head. "Ready to give the last direction for the night, Teach?"

She threw him a mock scowl. "Stop calling me that, would ya? I'm hardly experienced as it is."

"Maybe when you tell me your name!" He laughed as she attempted to whack him—a common fraternal exchange—as he tucked his notebook under his arm. He sent her one last cheeky grin, starting towards the fray of kids crowded around Bry.

Bry was rubbing his neck and glaring at her.

Figures.

She sighed and headed towards dusted wooden crates grouped in the center. A makeshift podium to command attention, the wood made a distinct creeak beneath her weight. Placing both forefingers between her teeth, a shrill whistle abruptly pierced through the bustling commotion around her.

Heads turned immediately.

Perfect.

Weakness was considered a flaw, a pliable vulnerability easily penetrated if visible. Shoulders straight. Back poised. Her eyes swept across each flushed face, as the voices quieted.

"As you are aware, Friday Night Fights is strictly a defense class. It's not to be a scoreboard of the weakest versus the strongest. This, I have come to notice." She pointedly eyed Bry. "These Friday Fights we do should not be abused. It's all about building your stamina for survival, finding your strengths, and honing your defenses for the real world."

She tilted her chin up, regarding everyone carefully as muttered "Yeses" echoed.

"Now, as most of you know those that participated, Brainy has your graded efforts." She noticed two familiar blonde girls standing off to the side, hands linked together: The Twins. Relatively new, they'd been brought in the previous week and had kept to themselves. Their pale-green eyes which held  a heaviness, suddenly sparked with interest.

Encouraged, she couldn't help but add, "For those newer to Edison's, our made calendar is nailed beside the stairway. For those turning fifteen or are, meet with Brainy to take down your names. I'll start you on a general, beginner's level starting tomorrow. Stakes will only be implemented as you progress as they will always be your most valued weapon." Finally, she took a breath, "Any questions?"

Silence.

Typically, there was at least one question or the general slew of obnoxious, "Will we really stake each other?" Down to the most basic, "Why wait to fight on Fridays?" To which her answer remained blunt, "Arlene's more drunk on the weekends."

Naturally, the woman was out cold before the first fight, leaving Arlene oblivious to the events that commenced in the cellar. Just as an added precaution they had little spies to confirm.

As she wrapped up the last of her speech a small smile unfurled. "All right then, bedtime for the younger ones. Meeting adjourned."

The younger children rubbed at their drooping, glassy eyes. "Trains" shaggy mane was sticking up at odd angles, raking his hands through the wild tangles to remain conscious. Just as soon he lost the battle and slumped to the floor.

"Hey, Bry," She spotted her frenemy as he started to disperse.

He intended to follow a beautiful, curvaceous Latina who had arrived months earlier. Her ebony curls were pulled up in a messy bun, remnants of her earlier battle with Crazy. "Blanka," she had introduced herself. She'd held her chin high with hawk-like eyes that spoke without reservation, and demonstrated her prowess in their fight.

If she hadn't been distracted with, "Worm" her beau, she might've won. The two had become near inseparable, bonding over their shared interests and love of books. Their brief time together had shown that beauty matched brains.

Charmingly handsome as a proclaimed nerd, the freckled redhead had Blanka folded against his lean frame. As she nestled into the crook of his shoulder however, there remained a weighted solemnity as they took to the stairs.

Crazy pitied them; regrettably, it wasn't the first time she'd witnessed to those who coupled up. The fair eighteen-year-old was set to depart the following week. Although Bry considered it the prime opportunity to console the morose girl, he'd soon find mending a broken heart wasn't easy. Essentially, Crazy knew he'd become the rebound.

But Crazy didn't bother to tell him. "Can you make sure Train makes it up the stairs, okay?"

Bry stared longingly after Blankas retreating backside. He rounded a glare at Crazy with a mock salute, "Sure... mam."

He jumped off the stairway towards the drooling tike.

  If that boy grows a heart, it will be a miracle. Annoyed, she watched Bry scoop up the snoring blonde in his arms. If he showed a sliver of such gentleness as  displayed with the younger kids, more girls would favor him.

"About time, babe."

It was a warm and firm hand that unexpectedly enfolded her waist.