♥ 𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒏 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒚 ★

Falcon

♥ The Colosseum ★

“Wings or not, you’re still a street rat,” Moth shot back to him, her tone rather haughty. “Doesn’t matter how you dress them up.”

Falcon laughed at that, his colorless eyes twinkling with mirth. Moth and Falcon’s relationship was… interesting, to say the least. Although he counted her among his friends, their interactions included banter that was rather harsh to an outsider; they traded barbs as sharp as any of Falcon’s feathers. It was a form of verbal fencing, and one that Falcon greatly enjoyed.

“Cupcake,” he drawled with a chuckle, “I’m better than a street rat. I’m a lab experiment.” Something dark flashed briefly through Falcon’s eyes, although it was there and gone almost too fast to register. The scars of Falcon’s formative years ran deep. His skin, of course, was nearly flawless, but some scars ran deeper than mere flesh and bone. He shook off his melancholy and set to inspecting his fingers further, running his fingers through the feathers. He frowned when one of his feathers snagged against his hand and began to tug loose. It was a smaller one, closer to his body. He glanced at Moth, and an idea came to mind.

With a mere flick of his will, his wings changed; a ripple seemed to run across his wings, as though a stone had been thrown into a pond. Each feather seemed to melt and reform, taking on a metallic sheen that cast light in all directions. Falcon found the loose feather and tugged it free, inspecting it for a moment. It was about four or five inches in length, with razor-sharp edges that could cut with a surgical precision. What had once been a feather shaft now served as a sort of handle. Falcon flexed his wings, and they returned to their soft, airy form.

Falcon flipped the feather-blade in his hand and tossed it to Moth. She caught it. “There,” he told her with a wry smile. “Don’t cut yourself with it, now, you hear?” He gave her an amused look. “And remember the number one rule: Stick ‘em with the pointy end.”

Moth’s attention was pulled away by the sudden flashing of the screen hanging in the corner. Falcon followed her gaze, and saw that the standings had been updated. It was time for the Jungle Kings to enter the arena. Falcon reached down and snagged his trench coat, shrugging it on again.

“I was always partial to a dramatic flair,” he mused. Casso was practically bouncing out of his skin.

“Finally!” the man said, clearly ready to go. “They want a show, I’ll give them a spectacle. You two can just stay out of my way.”

Falcon quirked an eyebrow. “Easy there, tiger,” he replied. “Leave some for the rest of us, yeah? It’s no fun otherwise.” Falcon followed Casso towards the door, although he paused to wait for Moth.

“Let’s give ‘em something to talk about, shall we?”

Moth

♥ The Colosseum ★ 𝕾𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖊 Hushabye

Moth’s eyebrow arched in surprise as Falcon offered her a blade from his wing. She took it wordlessly, twirling the metal feather in the palm of her hand with a practiced motion. Its near non-existent weight felt foreign compared to the crude weapons she normally used. She didn’t know how to thank him, so she settled for a joking bump against his chest as she walked by him toward the door.

The roaring of the crowd rang through the thick metal walls. It seemed louder now than it was when they entered the locker room, and for the first time she felt the slightest pang of worry. But she quickly snuffed it out like a rogue ember. There was no room for self-doubt in a fight to the death. Moth went through a mental check of all of her tools (belt, shatter gun, potions, knife in boot, knife in bodice, knife in hand) and set her shoulders.

The boys engaged in the requisite banter about putting on a show, and Moth merely smiled in agreement. As they walked down the long hall, the booming crowd sounds radiated from all angles. A chant of some kind was impossible to decipher, but provided a steady rhythm that drowned out the Jungle Kings’ footsteps. Soon they reached a heavy metal door, over which hung a clock that counted down by the second. When they stopped, it was at nine.

Eight...seven...six...The crowd was getting louder, competing with the ringing in Moth’s ears from her potions. There was a metallic taste in her mouth. Three...two...one.

The door clanged open, and a blinding curtain of light fell over the huddled gang. The first thing Moth made out was the sea of fans that packed the Colosseum. Before them stretched an enormous concrete floor that at first seemed empty.

It was on her second glance that Moth spotted five figures in an identical doorway on the opposite side of the floor. Before she had time to assess the enemy team, a horn blared. “FIGHT!” an automatic voice rang out. Moth ran forward instinctively, clutching the blade Falcon had given her in her left hand. Her eyes had not yet adjusted to the bright light. Suddenly a shape was barrelling toward her, and she rolled out of the way just in time to dodge a swinging fist. It had happened so quickly that she reeled backward, barely making it into a defensive stance before the enemy redoubled. He was a tall man dressed in all black, excluding his shock of bright yellow hair. Attached to his feet were blades that propelled him across the arena floor at lightning speed. He went after Moth a second time, reaching her in half a stride.

This time Moth was ready. She threw the glass vial at the ground an instant before the enemy reached her, and a cloud of purple smoke exploded at her feet. Her second move was to shelter her head, and mouth to avoid breathing in the toxic fumes. The man on skates clutched at his throat, eyes widening instantly in fear as the smoke filled his lungs. He wheeled out of the way, coughing and choking but still on his feet.

Moth’s brows furrowed, worried that the poison had not taken him out completely as she had hoped. But there was no time to think of another plan. In a matter of seconds, he was back, red-eyed and furious. Moth dodged his third swing, but he was nimble on his blades and threw a fourth with surprising quickness. It hit her in the lower back. Moth spun despite the sharp pain, blocking his arms as he swung a fifth time and then a sixth. He was much stronger, and each blow sent her stumbling back. She had no time between any of the blocks to reach for her belt. Her knife was still in her left hand, and in a last ditch effort she sliced downward, managing to catch the yellow-haired man on the forearm. Blood splattered across her face, temporarily blinding her before she opened them in time to see a fist flying toward her face.

Falcon

♥ The Colosseum ★

Moth gave him a strange look, but accepted his feather nonetheless. As they moved towards the door, and into the hallway that led to the arena, Falcon could hear the crowd increasing. The booming screams and cheers seemed to thrum with a life of their own, vibrating the very ground beneath his feet. He swore he could feel the shaking through his boots. With each step closer to the fight, his heart began to beat faster. He could feel his adrenalin spiking; his fingers began to tingle, and he flexed his hands, trying to dispel the sensation. It was a reflex gesture, more of a comforting habit than one that truly got rid of the tingling. His excitement was growing, pounding within him like a second heartbeat. His breathing increased, and he could feel his muscles begin to burn. Thanks to Falcon’s genetic modifications, his hemoglobin bound oxygen stronger than that of a normal human, meaning his muscles had access to more oxygen – which meant faster, and more efficient, glycolysis. Each ATP that was turned to ADP increased Falcon’s energy stores. He was ready for a real fight.

Before them was a great metal door; beyond it he could hear the crowd cheering and roaring. He watched the screen above the entrance, colorless eyes focused on the countdown.

Nine. Eight. Seven.

He took a deep breath and exhaled, settling himself into a mindset fit for battle.

Six. Five. Four.

He rolled his shoulders, loosening the muscles. Beneath his coat, his wings ruffled.

Three. Two. One.

The door swung open, and combat began.

Falcon was blinded by a brilliant light, but had enough wherewithal to twist, side-stepping the laser beam from an energy pistol. He dodged another shot, thankful for his swift reflexes. In an instant, he took in the arena. Moth was engaged with someone sporting a pair of fancy blades on his feet that propelled him about. Casso was engaged with another enemy and seemed to be holding his own. Falcon flicked his eyes to his own combatant; he was rather short compared to Falcon’s six-two frame, and wielded a gun that was responsible for the lasers fired in Falcon’s direction. The man fired once more. He twisted again, although the shot still grazed his arm. Irritated, Falcon shrugged off his jacket and snapped his wings out, spreading them to their full span. He heard the soft hush of awe over the crowd before the roaring and cheering started again. His enemy faltered but lifted his weapon to fire again.

In a blur of silver, Falcon launched himself into the air, gaining ten feet with one sweep of his wings. Several more shots came in Falcon’s direction, but he managed to avoid most of them. A few grazed against his skin and the edges of his wings. He circled the arena at a blinding pace, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. His attention was drawn, however, by a streak of purple out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head to see Moth go down, struggling against her foe. The man pulled his fist back and made to strike Moth across the jaw. He was fast, but Falcon was faster.

He slammed to the ground so hard his knees popped, and in the same moment extended his wing, thrusting it between Moth and her attacker. He let the shift wash over him, and his wings became as strong as titanium. The man’s fist slammed into Falcon’s wing, and he heard the crunch of bones and snap of ligaments. He cried out in pain, reeling back from Falcon in shock. Falcon reached down and yanked Moth to her feet. “They’ll focus on you, thinking you’re the weakest of us,” he told her. “Prove them wrong.”

And then he was gone, racing back towards the man with the laser weapons. In a whirl of silver and a clash of metal, Falcon’s opponent was dispatched. The man was screaming, clutching at his right arm – or, rather, what used to be his right arm. His forearm had been severed neatly at the elbow, with surgical precision. Falcon’s silver wings were stained red with blood. As his opponent crumpled to the ground, screaming, and wailing in pain, Falcon flicked his wings, and turned to find another opponent. He had several burns across his arms, as well as a few holes scorched through his flesh, but he ignored the pain, pushing it to the back of his mind.

His heart was racing, pumping oxygen to his muscles and organs. He could feel the beginning of hunger gnawing at his gut, warning him of the strain that was being placed on his body. Once this was over, he’d find himself a nice cozy spot to eat his weight in food. He glanced about the arena, searching for Casso and Moth to gauge if they needed his help.