Chapter 1: The Ultimatum
Chapter Text
You walked into school with your head down, moving fast. The hallway buzzed—lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, somebody laughing too loud—but none of it cut through. All you could hear was his voice from that morning:
Your brother owes me money. If he can’t deliver, I’ll put you to work. Forty-eight hours. Plenty of men would pay good money for you.
The words sat under your ribs like broken glass. You swallowed hard. Better to bleed in a ring than be sold off like that.
You’d heard the whispers before—boys bragging about an underground fight ring. Cash, bruises, busted ribs. The same one Merle used to sneak off to. If anyone knew how to get in, it’d be them.
You spotted one now, leaning near the back entrance. Too close to Negan’s office for comfort, but you didn’t care. You cut across the hall, grabbed his sleeve, and hauled him outside before he could blink.
“Hey—what the—” he stammered, stumbling after you as you shoved him behind the gym, where the air smelled of damp concrete and old smoke.
“Shut up.” Your fist tightened in his shirt. “We need to talk.”
His eyes darted, nervous. “If this is about—”
“It’s not.” Your voice came out raw, sharp. “I need money. I know you know about the fights.”
He froze, his face shuttering like steel doors slamming. “No. Forget it. You don’t get it.” He wrenched free, jaw tight. “Your brothers already made it clear—anyone even looks at you sideways, they’ll put us in the ground. You showing up there? That’s a death sentence. For you, for me, for anyone nearby.”
A flash burned through you—one of those guys from last week, doubled over on his knees behind this same gym, wheezing through blood. The bat cracked across his skull with a sound I still feel in my bones. He dropped and didn’t get back up. The echo clung even now.
You shoved the memory down. “I’ve seen worse. Either you give me a way in, or I’ll find one myself.”
His laugh was sharp, bitter. “Jesus Christ, Dixon. They’ll eat you alive. And if Negan finds out—”
“I can handle Negan,” you snapped, reckless heat curling in your chest. “I’ve got a plan.” Not much of one, but it doesn’t matter. “My brothers aren’t here to stop me. It’s just me.”
He stared at you a long moment, jaw working like he was chewing on his own grave. Then he swore under his breath. “Fine. I’ll figure something out. But you never heard it from me. You say my name, I’m done.”
“I won’t.”
He stalked off, leaving you pressed against the brick, pulse hammering, his warning clinging to your skin like smoke.
You slid down the wall until you hit the floor, the rough scrape of brick through your thin shirt a reminder you were still here, still in control—barely. You wrapped your arms tight around your legs, forehead to your knees, and let yourself breathe. Just for a minute. Just long enough to make my heart stop trying to punch its way out of my chest.
I hate this. But I need it. There isn’t another way to pay off my father—not unless my brothers drop out of the sky to fix everything like they always try.
I’ve run the math, turned over every option, burned through every scrap of pride trying to find another way. There isn’t one. And I’m so damn tired of pretending it doesn’t scare me.
You pulled yourself together and went back inside, slipping into class like nothing had happened. You moved on autopilot, nodding when you had to, copying notes you didn’t see, pretending the world hadn’t just tilted under your feet. All the while, my innocence hangs on a kid I barely know—and a fight that might not even happen before my father’s clock runs out.
You didn’t see him again until after lunch. By then, the hall was a torrent of noise—lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, voices bouncing off the walls—but somehow it all dimmed when he passed. He walked with his usual crowd, head high, laughter too loud, but not once did his eyes meet yours. Not a second glance. Not a flicker of recognition.
Your chest sank. The air felt heavier, and you had to bite back a sharp inhale. “I’ll be right back,” you murmured to Katie, who was talking about something trivial—homework or the game later—and you almost envied her ability to just keep going.
The excuse of needing something from your locker gave you a shield, a reason to step aside, to breathe, to let the tears that had been hovering behind your eyes finally fall. You fumbled with the lock, twisting the combination too many times before it clicked. And then a paper, yellowed at the edges, slid from the locker. It fluttered down like it had been waiting for this moment.
You snatched it before it hit the floor, your fingers curling around it almost instinctively. A granola bar followed—your lunch was nothing more than a token gesture these days. Both shoved into your pocket, the paper and the bar, small comforts, small shields.
You wiped your eyes with the back of your sleeve and straightened your shoulders. When you stepped back into the hall, Katie was there, smiling too easily, unaware. You let yourself be pulled back into the flow of students, walking to class side by side, but your heart felt heavier, and the paper in your pocket burned like a secret against your leg.
Once you got settled into class and the teacher droned on, handing out worksheets that no one seemed to care about, you slipped your hand into your pocket, making sure Katie’s attention was elsewhere. Your fingers brushed against the crumpled piece of paper you’d grabbed earlier. Carefully, you eased it out, straightening it on your desk.
There were just a few lines, scrawled in messy, hurried handwriting:
Bracket Qualifiers – Day 1 of 2
Up to $200/fight
7:45pm tonight
The abandoned warehouse
Corner of 5th and Elm
Good Luck
Your chest tightened, and then you realized you’d been holding your breath. A shaky exhale escaped without you meaning to. The note, dangerous and promising all at once, felt like a lifeline in your pocket.
You swapped it back for the granola bar you’d been pretending to eat, trying to act normal while your mind raced ahead, picturing the warehouse, the fights, the money. You forced your focus back to the class assignment, scribbling answers mechanically, but a little spark of hope had returned, bright and fragile. For just a moment, the air felt lighter, like you could actually breathe.
Chapter 2: Slugger's Rise
Summary:
Under the bright, brutal lights of the fight warehouse, Dixon becomes Slugger. Every strike, every dodge, every cheer from the crowd is a small victory—but the danger is real, and the stakes are rising. Can she keep control, or will the thrill of the fight push her too far?
Chapter Text
You arrived at the warehouse around 7:30, checking in quickly with the desk before slipping inside. The air hit you first - a mixture of stale beer, sweat, blood, and cigarette smoke that clung to the walls and floor. The low hum of chatter and occasional laughter mixed with the distant clank of metal made the place feel alive and dangerous all at once.
Your eyes scanned the crowd, taking in the people milling around. Groups of guys huddled near the corners, whispering to one another, occasionally breaking into bursts of laughter or roughhousing that made you tense. Somewhere in the middle, you spotted the group of boys from school. Their leader gave you a subtle nod, just enough to acknowledge your presence before turning his attention elsewhere.
You kept moving, careful not to draw attention. Your cargo pants felt heavy with the weight of the small items tucked into the pockets earlier, and the plain black hoodie you’d stolen from your brothers offered anonymity. You tugged the hood up higher, tilting your head down to shield your face. Every step was measured, careful, and silent against the concrete floor.
Finally, you found the registration desk for fighters. A gruff man behind the table glanced up, taking your name—or what you would be called tonight. You scribbled quickly: Slugger. The name felt right: simple, aggressive, unassuming. It was a mask you could hide behind, a persona for the crowd and the fighters alike.
Once registered, you were handed gloves, wraps, and a number for your bracket. The scent of disinfectant mingled with the sweat and blood in the air as you adjusted your gear, wrapping your hands tightly, checking your stance in a cracked mirror nearby. Your heart pounded with adrenaline, and you felt a strange thrill. Tonight, this wasn’t about school, family, or anyone else—you had a mission, and your focus was total.
The announcer called your bracket, and the hum of the crowd shifted to a sharp, anticipatory energy. Eight fighters, three short matches, points tallied for every strike, knockdown, and cheer. You stepped into the ring under the bright lights, feeling the floor vibrate with the crowd’s anticipation. This is it, you told yourself. Time to show them what Slugger can do.
Day 1 – Point Bracket Qualifier
The arena smelled of sweat and adrenaline, a low hum of anticipation vibrating through the crowd. Eight fighters, three short matches each—fast, brutal, precise. Every punch scored points, every knockdown counted, every cheer added to the tally. Your first fight was about to begin.
Fight 1 – Opening Bout
Jax “Quick Hands” Morales darted across the ring the moment the bell rang, jabs flicking out like lightning. You stayed tight at first, ducking under his arms, circling, feeling out his rhythm.
Then you saw your opening. In the second minute, Jax overextended a jab. You slipped under, stepped forward, and let your right hand fly—impact sharp, precise. His knees wobbled. You followed him to the ropes, a flurry of punches to the body, each one pushing him back further. The crowd erupted; you weren’t just surviving, you was dominating.
By the third round, Jax tried to rally, but the points were already yours. When the judges raised your hand, a rush of satisfaction rolled through you.
Payout: $50 base, $100 for the win—$150 total.
Fight 2 – Mid-Bracket
Next up was “Downtown” Rina Valdez, a southpaw with a heavy left hook. The first strike clipped your ribs sharply, stealing your breath. You covered up, shook it off, and reset.
Working the angles, you started chipping away at Rina’s lead leg with low kicks. Slowly, Rina’s movement faltered. With a minute to go in the second round, you feinted a jab, stepped in, and snapped a left hook into Rina’s jaw. Rina stumbled. The crowd erupted in a deafening chant: Slug-ger! Slug-ger! The knockdown points stacked in your favor.
Payout: $100 for the win, $50 crowd bonus—$150 added, $300 total so far.
Fight 3 – Points Final
Mack “The Jackhammer” Doyle hit the ring next. Stocky, relentless, throwing hooks without pause. The first minute was punishing—your hands up, head snapping back, breathing harsh—but you stayed on your feet, waiting for the chance to strike.
Midway through the second, it came. You slipped a right, drove a shot to his gut, and followed with a punishing combination—body, body, head—until the bell rang. Exhausted, sweating, you felt the tension lift when the decision was called in your favor. You’d made it to the main bracket.
Payout: $100 win—$400 total for Day 1.
The night air hit you as you stepped out of the warehouse, still buzzing from the fights. Your cargo pockets $400 heavier. Every step felt electric, your veins thrumming with adrenaline, your mind replaying each dodge, punch, each roar of the crowd. You felt invincible. Untouchable. Free.
But the closer you got to home, the weight in your chest grew heavier. The adrenaline began to fade, replaced by that familiar pit of dread. Your father could be anywhere, waiting, ready to take what you earned to replace a debt that wasn’t yours to pay.
What if it’s not enough? What if he doesn’t give me the full 48 hours?
You clenched your fists, forcing yourself to breath evenly, to stay calm.
When you rounded the corner and saw the trailer dark and empty, his truck gone from out front, relief washed over you like a wave. Your father wasn’t home. Not tonight. You slipped inside quietly, heart still racing, and sank against the trailer door for a long moment, letting the tension drain.
You got up after some time and headed for the bathroom. Carefully, you unwrapped your knuckles, inspecting the cuts and bruises from the night’s fights, cleaning them, and tending to any swelling.
Once your hands were taken care of, you looked yourself over, checking for any other marks or soreness that might need attention. You made sure to address each one, carefully massaging and icing as needed, knowing that tomorrow you’d be back at the warehouse for the finals.
Finally, you stepped into the shower, letting the warm water wash over you. Every drop felt like a small relief, easing the tension in your muscles, loosening the tight knots of fatigue, and helping your mind slow down. You focused on relaxing, recovering as much as possible, mentally preparing yourself for the fights still to come.
Chapter 3: The Main Bracket
Summary:
The semifinals are here. Dixon faces opponents bigger, faster, and more ruthless than ever. And when chaos erupts, one unexpected figure steps into the ring—turning the fight on its head. Will she survive the main bracket, and what price will she pay for victory?
Chapter Text
You woke to the pale light slipping through the blinds, cutting thin lines across the trailer floor. The quiet was heavy, the kind that presses against your chest and makes every little sound— a creak in the wall, the hum of the fridge— feel amplified, like the calm before the storm.
You stayed in bed a moment longer, stretching slowly. You traced each bruise and scrape, thinking about whether they needed ice or a quick bandage before the next round, appreciating the strange gratitude for being sore in a way that wasn’t from your dad’s punishments, but from your own fight. Baseball practice and daily life had conditioned you for pain, but this was different—focused, dangerous, earned.
When you got up, you dressed in the same cargo pants and sweatshirt, swapping in a fresh shirt and undergarments underneath. You dug into your small collection of hiding spots and tucked the envelope of cash somewhere safe—a hollow carved into an old book on your shelf, its pages glued together just enough to hold the bills, invisible unless someone knew exactly where to look.
Breakfast was simple. You scrounged together what you could—something to fill your stomach without slowing you down. You ate slowly, mindfully, feeling each bite and the way your body reacted. Water went down smooth and cold, a reminder that you had to take care of yourself, that you had to survive. You gave yourself time to digest, to center your mind and muscles, knowing that in a few hours, the next fight would demand everything you had left.
As you finished, you ran your fingers over your knuckles again, flexed your wrists, and looked out the trailer window at the morning light. The day had begun, and it was already testing you.
You made your way back through town and over to the warehouse, checking in before slipping inside. The air smelled the same—sweat, oil, and faint bleach—but it felt different. There was electricity humming through the room, an anticipation that made your skin tingle. More people milled about than yesterday, some leaning against walls, others pacing, all of them waiting for something to happen.
A few of your opponents from yesterday nodded at you as you passed, brief gestures of respect that made your chest tighten in a mix of pride and nerves. Whispers followed you as you moved: Slugger… Slugger… The name felt heavier now, passed around like a warning and a challenge all at once.
In the crowd, you spotted the group of guys from your school. They avoided your eyes at first, then shuffled nervously as if unsure whether to nod or scatter. You caught the faint glimmer of their bets, the tension in their posture, and something in your chest flickered—a mix of validation and unease.
Your gaze caught the pack leader’s eyes for a fraction of a second. The look was unreadable, a silent message about luck and strength. Your stomach clenched. There was no way to tell if it was encouragement, a warning, or a test.
You drew a slow breath, trying to calm the thrum in your chest. Confidence from yesterday’s wins was fading, replaced by the weight of expectation pressing down like a physical thing. You focused on your breathing, on the rhythm in your legs and arms, trying to center yourself. The fight was coming, and every second of hesitation could cost you everything.
You kept your head down, shoulders tight, letting the crowd swirl around you like a current you had no choice but to swim through.
Day 2 – Main Bracket
Quarterfinal (Afternoon)
The bell clanged, sharp and insistent. You bounced on your toes, gloves raised, eyes scanning. Your opponent lunged, wiry and fast, but you moved on instinct, slipping past attacks and landing counters that drew cheers from the crowd. Every punch sent jolts through your arms; sweat stung your eyes, and your ribs screamed from previous nights.
When the bell rang to signal the end, you sagged into your corner, chest heaving, and the ref raised your hand. You’d won. Your payout: $500 base + $500 win = $1,000.
Semifinal – Slugger vs. Hammer
Hammer loomed across the ring, a wall of muscle and menace. You circled, light on your feet, eyes darting, trying to read him. Every swing you dodged or blocked felt like survival. You landed a few clean hits—enough to earn the crowd’s cheers—but he was patient, waiting.
Then it happened. A quick feint, a left hook slammed into your temple. The room tilted. Footing betrayed you, just enough.
Sound warped. The crowd’s roar faded, replaced by the hum of lights and the thump of your own heartbeat.
And then you saw him.
A figure in the shadows of the corner. Broad shoulders, leaning lazily against the ropes. Your chest tightened with recognition.
You tried to call out, but no sound came.
Hammer’s boot shot sideways—sharp, merciless. White-hot pain flared behind your eyes. And then—nothing.
Negan’s POV — Moments Before
You make your way through the tunnel toward the ring, the hum of the crowd growing louder with every step.
Then you spot them—a few students from school, pressed against the wall, whispering and shifting nervously. Their eyes flick to you, widen with panic, then drop immediately as they shuffle toward the exit, guilty expressions plastered across their faces. Like they know something you don’t. Your fists clench.
As they go to leave, the pack leader glances up at you, eyes full of apologies and worry, and nods toward the ring before disappearing with the others.
You step closer to the ring, the crowd’s roar rising around you, but your focus narrows. And then you see her—Dixon. Slugger. Your goddamn third baseman. Gloves up, muscles coiled, eyes scanning, every bit the fighter she’s supposed to be.
Your chest tightens. You don’t want her to see you here, don’t want her to know you’re watching—but she already has. Her eyes widen in recognition, the shock and fear flashing across her face like a warning you can’t ignore.
And then it happens. Hammer’s boot connects perfectly. She stumbles, tipped off balance, and slides to the mat. The world tilts for a heartbeat, the crowd’s roar fading into a dull hum in your ears. You freeze, fists clenched, every instinct screaming to step in, but relief surges ugly and fast. You wouldn’t have to make the impossible choice. There’s no way you could have hit her. Not like that, not ever.
Negan vs. Hammer — Immediately After
Negan steps into the ring, boots scraping against the mat, the crowd’s roar swelling like a wave around him. Hammer is already there, muscles taut, fists raised, trying to look confident, but Negan can see the slight hesitation in his stance.
No circling, no warm-up. He walks him down, each step measured, controlled. The first body shot rips into Hammer’s ribs, and the man stumbles, winded. Negan doesn’t pause. A sharp uppercut cracks through Hammer’s guard, followed by a short right hook that sends him flat to the mat. The crowd erupts, stunned into silence for a moment, then explodes again, a cacophony of disbelief and awe.
Negan doesn’t wait for the count. He steps back, letting the chaos settle behind him, every muscle still coiled, every sense alert.
He glances once toward the shadows where Dixon had fallen. Relief still lingers, bitter and fast, but he knows she’s going to be okay—at least for now. He turns fully toward the crowd, letting the heat of the arena wash over him, and hears the ref announce the payout: $5,000 appearance, $1,000 crowd bonus = $6,000 total.
Hammer groans from the mat, struggling to push himself up, but Negan’s already moving, slipping out of the ring, letting the fight’s outcome speak for itself.
Totals:
Slugger: $400 (Day 1) + $1,000 (Quarterfinal) + $700 (Semifinal) = $2,100
Negan: $6,000 from one fight
Your POV
The world comes back in pieces.
First, the smell—sweat, beer, and the metallic tang of blood in your mouth. It clings to your throat and makes your stomach lurch. Then the sound—crowd noise muffled through cinderblock, the hum of a vending machine, the slow drip of water somewhere nearby. A cold compress presses to your temple, but every throb makes you want to sink back into the dark.
You force one eye open. The overhead light stabs at you, so you try again in narrow slits. Someone sits in a folding chair beside the cot, elbows on knees, boots planted wide. Watching you.
“You done being stupid?”
Even through the ringing in your ears, you know that voice.
“…Coach?”
Negan’s jaw flexes. “Yeah, it’s me. Wanna tell me why my third baseman’s getting her head punted into next week?”
You blink, trying to connect the dots. “…Why are you here?”
His mouth twists. “To fight. That’s what they paid me for.”
“You fought? Tonight?”
“Five minutes ago. Right after Hammer planted you.” His gaze sharpens. “Guess who was supposed to fight you if you’d won.”
Your stomach flips. “…You?”
“Bingo. And I’ll tell you right now, kid — I was hopin’ to hell you dropped. Not ‘cause I wanted you hurt, but because there’s no world where I’m putting my fists on you for a purse.”
You swallow hard, guilt pooling heavy. You can’t tell him the real reason—not yet—but it sits between you like a brick wall. Your father’s voice still echoes from earlier: Plenty of men would pay good money for you.
Negan leans forward, elbows on knees again, eyes locked on yours. “You’re still in high school. You’ve got games to play, grades to keep up, and a swing I’m still fixing. Not busted ribs and concussions.”
“I had to be here,” you mutter.
His eyes narrow. “Yeah? Well, next time, you figure out another way.”
He reaches toward the table and nudges your stack of bills—a few crumpled twenties, a handful of fives and coins. Maybe seven hundred, if you’re lucky. Beside it, he drops a fat envelope with a solid thump. “Six grand. One fight.”
For a second, you think he might take it back. Instead, he pushes it closer to your side of the table without looking at you.
Then he stands, the scrape of chair legs loud in the quiet. “Don’t make me find you here again.”
He leaves without another word, the envelope sitting there like an unspoken truce—and a warning.
You sit in the silence, staring at the stack of money and the envelope, hands shaking. Your chest heaves, heart still hammering from the fight and the adrenaline crash. You press the cold compress to your temple again, wincing, but it barely dulls the pain.
The back room smells of antiseptic, sweat, and lingering smoke from the ring lights. Your legs ache so badly you almost don’t notice the dull thrum of dread crawling up your spine. You count the bills mechanically, then lift the envelope. Six grand. One fight. You know you should be proud, or relieved, but all you feel is hollow and raw.
Somewhere in the hall outside, you hear footsteps—fighters, staff, maybe someone from earlier. You don’t move, don’t call out. You just press your forehead to the cot and let yourself imagine the crowd outside, the noise, the fear, and the exhaustion all crashing together.
Finally, you let yourself breathe, slowly, shakily, realizing the fight was over, but the weight of everything—her father, the money, the risk—was still pressing down on your chest. And in the quiet, she made herself a promise: she wouldn’t let anyone see how much it hurt. Not yet. Not ever.
Chiviz60G (Guest) on Chapter 1 Sun 07 Sep 2025 04:17AM UTC
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