Chapter Text
The Dormont Fight Club is the pre-eminent fight club in Vaugarde, famous for a variety of reasons. First, it’s not even in Dormont, which never ceases to cause confusion. It used to be, but it got too big and eventually relocated to Jouvente without bothering to change the name. Second is its culture. The club is attached to a bar/café/restaurant combo thing that serves a ridiculous variety of food and drink, and is run by Claude, the champion/owner Euphrasie’s ‘gal pal’. No, they are not dating, no matter how many times they get caught snogging on the clock, they’re just like that. The eclectic nature of the dining space is one thing, but another is that it’s only available to fighters, with a handful of very specific exceptions. Claude and Euphrasie encourage the fighters to socialise without hitting each other in the face, a practice that other clubs adopted.
Another adopted practice lay in the Craft shields used for the fighters. An ingenious design that Euphrasie constantly strives to improve. At its current level it can negate almost any non-Craft attack, instead administering its own bolt of pain or numbness to simulate the damage; paired with the rule restricting potentially dangerous clothing, it means the club hadn’t had a proper injury in years.
Finally, the exclusivity. There are only three ways to become a fighter for DFC. One: Be invited by a current member and pass a test. Two: succeed in an open try-out that happens as and when Euphrasie feels like it. Or three: Euphrasie herself; being either personally invited by her, or convincing her to accept a challenge, then facing whatever trial she poses to you.
You have somehow fallen into category one. “You have been invited to join the DFC by request of a current member,” the letter reads. It’s signed by Euphrasie and lists the address along with a date and time. You’d only been in Jouvente a few days before the letter was delivered to your hotel room. It confused you then, and it still confuses you now, standing outside the entrance to the club so early that the sun has only just finished rising.
You haven’t properly fought since the last club you’d been in shut down and everyone involved with it went their separate ways. It must be someone from your old club recognising you, but you were only ever close with a handful of people, none of whom you’ve seen since.
No sense putting it off, you’re barely on time as it is. You knock on the door and are let in a moment later by… a child? You look down at the kid, wearing large boots and a big hat. A lightless bracelet sits on their right wrist, and a name tag on their vest reads ‘Bonnie’, and below that, ‘kitchen assistant’. Not someone you recognise, that’s for sure.
“Who’re you?” Bonnie asks.
You stop staring and hold up your invite. “Siffrin. Someone invited me, apparently.”
Bonnie’s eyes light up. “Oh, you! This way, this way.” They run to a door on the opposite side of the building, boots clomping loudly as they weave between tables and wave for you to follow. Dutifully, you do so, struggling to get a read on the space you cross. It has a long bar across one wall, with a door marked ‘kitchen, staff only’ next to it. Normal enough so far. The rest of the open floor, however, is a weird collision of conflicting styles. Fancy tables and plush booths next to scratched and aged benches sat with what appear to be rain-soaked picnic tables, chandeliers in some places and simple covered candles in others. Tall tables with no chairs, and short tables set on mats. Sofas in one corner, and even some big bean bags sat around them. No matter how you look at it, you can’t see the vision, and not just because one of your eyes doesn’t work any more. At the very least, the walls all have a consistent paint job.
Still not the weirdest place you’ve seen in Vaugarde.
The door leads to a short hallway with three more doors in it, one at each end leading to stairs heading up and down respectively, and another a little ways down on the opposite wall that heads outside. The three arenas of the DFC, made to allow constant variance in fights both private and public. Bonnie heads downstairs without checking you’re following, leaving you to rush to catch up.
The stairs bottom out into a large space; clean, well-lit, and properly ventilated, but otherwise clearly trying – and succeeding – to emulate the idea of an ‘illegal underground fight club’. The arena sits in the middle of the space, a standard fighting ring with the padded ropes made to look like a crumbling wooden fence. Three people are on the other side, not yet having noticed your arrival. A tall woman in an elegant gown, with dark skin and curly, voluminous darkless hair bound tightly to her head before spreading out freely who must be Euphrasie; a shorter woman with shorter, darker hair; in a lab coat, with round glasses pushed up onto her head, and safety goggles hanging around her neck who must be Claude; and a third, very familiar face.
Standing there in the startlingly different fighting outfit to what you last saw them in – long trousers cuffed tight at the ankles as always, but a sleeveless top showing off some new constellation tattoos, and fingerless gloves that appear to just be for style points – was Loop, or Fenic when not in the ring. Their darkless hair is longer, tied into a messy braid and falling over one shoulder down their chest.
Fenic spots you and waves, smiling and saying something else to the other two as you walk around the ring. “Stardust! And here I worried you’d overslept,” they say. “The eyepatch is new.”
“Yeah, went blind in one eye,” you reply with a shrug.
“Cool story?”
“Not really.”
They mirror your shrug and step aside, letting Euphrasie address you.
“So you’re Siffrin?” she asks. “I’ve heard promising things.”
“That’s me. Not sure why I’m here, though.”
“You’re here because we want to see if you’ll join. Apparently you used to be in the same club as Fenic, here. Whatever happened to that place? Some of the fighters there were amazing.” You hum and shrug. You don’t really think about it any more. “Oh well, that’s not what matters. What matters is that Fenic spotted you the other day and wanted to send you an invite. So how about it?”
You’re already here, so no reason to not at least feel it out. It might still be fun, assuming you remember how. “Sure. There’s some sort of test, right?”
“Yup, hop in the ring and fight until I say stop.”
“So,” Fenic says, jumping back in front of her, “think you’ve still got it?”
You smile. “Enough to beat you. What are the rules?”
“One: no Craft of any kind. Two: you can wear whatever you want so long as it can’t cause harm. So nothing hard, like rings; nothing that could fall or break off, like earrings or necklaces; and nothing that could trap someone, like a scarf or something.”
“So I can keep my cloak on?”
“Yup, but only because it’s really more like a poncho and won’t tangle up around someone’s neck. It’s also on you if someone grabs it and throws you across the ring. The hat has to go, though. Carrying on, rule three: do not leave the ring, obviously. Four: listen to whoever’s officiating, obviously. Fights are to submission or TKO, or KO if you somehow manage that through the shields. TKO is determined by the Craft shield taking so much damage it breaks. There’s also a points system that can be used if a fight takes too long, but they usually don’t get to that point thanks to the standard format used here being a one-round all-or-nothing, rather than a slow multi-round system.”
You slip off your hat and shoes, and consider leaving the cloak on but decide to remove it because of the pins. They’re small enough and well-secured enough that they should be fine, but better safe than sorry. You look around for somewhere to put them and Fenic points to a little clothes rack in the corner.
“And wear these,” they say, handing you a pair of plain lightless socks. You take them and turn them over in your hand to look at them; you have socks, what are these for? They don’t appear special. “They’re padded,” Loop explains, “cushioned since the floors aren’t soft. They also have good support and grip, makes it harder to slip and twist your ankle way out of line. You can get your own pair later with a better fit.”
You swap your socks for the new ones, and they are actually really comfortable.
“Do you have a ring name?” Euphrasie asks from where she’s writing something down.
You do, not that it’s seen any use in recent years. “Stardust,” you say.
Like slipping into an old suit, you hop into the ring where Loop is already stretching – that little switch in your head swapping to their ring name – and begin doing your own identical stretches. They give you a little smile. You guess they’re happy that you kept their nickname as your ring name, or they’re just happy to kick you in the face again. Could be either, really. Claude and Bonnie both go stand on one side of the ring to watch while Euphrasie climbs in to act as ref.
“You’ll fight until one of you loses or I call match, understood?” she asks. You both nod, and Loop plasters on their stage smile for the audience of two. She Crafts the shield over each of you (tingly) and chops a hand down. “Begin.”
You explode into motion. Loop has had more recent practice than you, or maybe never even stopped, but you can hopefully get by on your horrible amalgamation of moves and techniques that you learned just because, instead of committing to one style.
The opening move is a simple one: throwing yourself straight at them and grabbing on. You get your hands on their collar and your legs around their waist and twist, throwing both of you to the floor and barely managing to unhook your legs before they’re crushed. The shield flashes dimly beneath them as it absorbs the impact.
You try to start raining elbows and hammer fists, but fail to land a single blow before Loop reaches up and pulls you into a headbutt. The world swims about you like you’re sea-sick, and instead of feeling your nose break, the shield does its job and only lets it hurt for a moment before leaving you with pins and needles. Bringing a hand to your face as you roll away confirms the absence of injury.
The world settles back down and you scramble to your feet, turning just in time to see Loop plant their hands on the ground and shoot a kick at your head. You weave back, and Loop continues the momentum, kicking off the ground and twisting straight into another kick. They float as if gravity is optional, snapping out three kicks all without touching the ground. The strikes hammer into you, and they tuck their legs underneath them to land cleanly. You had to block the blows, and now your arms are singing with numb recognition, shaking and quaking as your muscle memory wakes back up.
Never one to let their momentum drop, Loop springs out of their landing, flowing the motion into a punch that drops their body low and arcs a fist straight into your side. The sensation is odd. It feels like your ribs crack but also not. You’d like to take a moment to be impressed by the quality of the Craft, but Loop is still moving. They swing their body back, lowering the hand they just hit you with to the floor to brace for another kick. It could go high, low or mid. They’re trying to force you to guess and hoping you guess wrong.
You don’t have to guess, though, you can just stop it in its tracks.
As soon as their foot leaves the ground, you step in and kick it back, then quickly sweep the bracing leg out as well and knock them onto their back. You thank your natural flexibility for allowing you to still perform this next move, and swing your leg straight up above your head. The axe kick falls hard and fast, crashing into Loop’s back as they try to roll away. They reach out for your other leg to pull you off-balance and you jump back out of range.
Bonnie cheers from the sidelines, and you wonder why a child is allowed to watch this. Claude is standing next to them, appearing to take notes, and Euphrasie is in the corner of your eye, watching the fight with narrowed eyes and doing such a good job keeping out of the way that you almost forgot she was there. Your breaths come short and half-full; you’re out of practice. You’ve always had poor stamina, and it’s only gotten worse with disuse. This fight needs to end quickly before you embarrass yourself.
You rush at Loop as they struggle to get up, remembering at the last second why that’s a bad idea and stopping short just as their feet whistle by your chin. They complete the flip and land smoothly, immediately moving in wide, swaying steps as you circle each other. There’s a fancy name for it that you don’t remember, but you do remember it usually means they want to kick you, rather than anything else. Unless they’re bluffing, of course, but that goes for everything.
As expected, they turn one of the steps into a spin and snap a straight kick at you. You sidestep it, trapping the leg and trying to step in to punish, but they jump up and try to kick you with their other leg, because of course they do.
Past the dumb animal panic your brain throws up at the sight of the mad attack, you mange to react well enough to drop their trapped leg and block the kicking one. Somehow, they land on their feet and try to sweep your legs. You’re getting back into the motions now, though, and easily hop over it, closing the distance and throwing a simple jab at their face. They block it, and you smoothly continue the move without stopping by slamming an elbow straight into their forearm. You reach past their guard with your other hand, grab their head, and bring it down to meet your knee at great speed.
They stagger back, and you tune out Bonnie’s cheering like it’s second nature, a smile finding its way to your face. You collide with Loop in a familiar series of punches and kicks, knees and elbows, blocks and traps, ending when you twist to try and throw them over your hip. They land on their feet, because of course they do, and go low, grabbing your arm so you can’t separate and get out of the way of the leg sweep.
You hit the ground hard, and have just enough time to see Loop flipping in the air above you but no time to brace before they land on you. Wheezing as the air goes out of your lungs, you try to roll Loop off of you, failing when their fist comes out of nowhere and hits you in the face. All sense of direction abandons you. Your sight narrows in on anything that moves, blocking out the rest of the world. Blood rushes in your ears and a kernel of panic takes root as you realise you’re trapped.
Breathe in… and out. Ignore the blows. Get out.
With one hand you grab their wrist mid-punch, and with the other you grab their throat, trying to force some distance between you, to dislodge them even slightly from their straddle. Loop tries to pry you off their neck, but you keep fighting to create just enough space for you to surge up and buck them off your centre line. Far from the best – or even a good – way to get out of this, but ground work isn’t something Loop is great at either, so it works. They can’t recover it, and you roll them fully off of you.
Both back on your feet, you begin to circle again. Their weight is balanced differently. Did that fall mess up one of their legs? You can use that.
“Match!” Euphrasie shouts, suddenly standing between the two of you.
The Craft shields fizzle out, taking most but not all of the false pain with them, and leaving a vague sense of confusion in the affected areas. You’re suddenly aware of how exhausted you are, panting for breath and bending to put your hands on your knees. Loop steps out of the ring, becoming Fenic once more, and you follow once you’ve got your breath. Bonnie runs over with two bottles of water.
“Slow sips,” they say, which you’d like to say you remembered, but you were totally about to gulp half of it down in one go.
Claude has already left the room, leaving whatever she was writing with Euphrasie, who’s now reading it. Oh right, that was a test. Well, you probably failed. Loop is definitely better than you, and probably would have won had the match not been stopped. That’s probably why she stopped it, because she could see your loss coming. She comes over, and you brace for what you know is coming.
“You certainly didn’t disappoint,” she says. “And with that, I officially offer you a spot on our roster of fighters. Just fill this out if you want to join.” She takes the top sheet off the clipboard and turns it to face you, revealing a sign-up form.
Huh? “Huh?”
“You can take some time to think about it if you want.”
Huh? Okay, stop that. Catch up. She’s offering to let you join. Do you want to? Sure, you guess. Got nothing better to do.
You take the clipboard from her and fill it out quickly before she changes her mind. She just takes it with a smile, glancing over it before tucking it under one arm.
“Wonderful,” she says, “normally I’d show you around and get you acquainted, but I’m unfortunately really busy today finalising a little project. Fenic, would you be able to do it?”
“Sure,” Fenic says before turning to you. “Come on.” They walk back upstairs with you trailing behind them, still finishing putting your cloak back on. “There’s some showers and a proper locker room upstairs on the floor below the roof arena, if you want to clean off.”
You open your mouth to reply and your stomach growls.
“You ate before coming here, right?” Fenic asks.
“I overslept.”
“Of course you did. Let’s go get some food, then you can shower.” They look you up and down, frown, and look around. “Did you not bring a change of clothes as well?”
“I didn’t know I was going to be fighting! The invitation didn’t say anything.”
“Fair enough, I suppose. Nothing we can do about it now.”
The common area has filled up some while you were fighting; a few of the tables are occupied by small groups, and people are walking around behind the bar and through the door to the kitchen. Bonnie comes up behind you and heads for the kitchen, while Euphrasie heads through a door you didn’t see earlier, through which you catch a glimpse of an office. Bonnie diverts halfway across the room to talk to someone sat at a table. She looks like a fighter, judging by her arms anyway, wearing an identical vest to Bonnie, but with practical and well-worn trousers instead of shorts. She also has a darkless bracelet on her left wrist – mirroring Bonnie’s – and the same dark skin and hair, though hers is pulled into a tight, practical braid. She turns to look at you when Bonnie points, clearly sizing you up.
“That’s Pétronille,” Fenic says. “Bonnie’s sister. Depending on what they just told her, she’ll either want to fight you right now or after someone else has.”
“Can I ask why a child is here at all?”
“Uhhhh, kept breaking in to watch Pétronille fight, somehow ended up with a job. That’s what I was told, anyway. They’ve both been here way longer than I have.”
Fenic leads you to a table and hands you a menu. It’s three pages of seemingly every idea whoever’s in charge of it has ever had. Sandwiches with every filling option and then some; ham, cheese, salmon, turkey, chicken, tomatoes, lettuce, bell peppers, spicy peppers, eggs, spaghetti. Spaghetti? What? There’s a little bit of fine print under that. Apparently anything else on the menu can be ordered as a sandwich and they’re using spaghetti as an example. Sure, why not? Technically anything between two slices of bread is a sandwich, but you doubt you’ll order a beef stew sandwich any time soon.
The rest of the menu continues in much the same way, offering everything from pastries and cakes to chargrilled octopus and fancy soufflés. You order a single pain au chocolat before you give yourself a headache. Your food arrives not even a minute later, and you eat it slower than you usually would since you just fought. It still ends up finished in only a few moments, with Fenic not far behind on their food.
The front door opens, and Fenic points to the two new arrivals. A tall adult in loose, flowing clothes, with a waist-length dark braid interwoven with fake flowers, and wearing a cloth face mask with playing cards printed on it; accompanied by a child in more padded, rough and ragged clothes, with short light curly hair doing as it pleases around his head.
“The bookie slash match organiser, and their not-kid: Fiore and Gabby,” Fenic says.
“There is a second child in this fight club.”
“Let’s stop worrying about the children. There’s only two of them here and both have special permission. Focus on Fiore, she handles all the odds and bets for the fights, and is also the one you’ll be getting your cut from. He’s nice.”
“And the kid, Gabby?”
“Not a clue, he’s just wherever Fiore is.”
You drink some more of your water. Euphrasie, Claude, Bonnie, Pétronille, Fiore, Gabby. Are you going to have to meet everyone who works or fights here? Well, you’ll meet most of them in the ring at some point. At least you’ve only actually had to speak to half of the people you’ve met so far, including Fenic who you already knew. You don’t think you could handle if you had to start doing actual introductions.
“Ah,” Fenic says as the door swings open again. A short woman in a nice dress walks in, dark, curly hair poofed out around her head with a pretty bow tied in it. Some Change ornaments attached to a capelet go ‘ding-ding’ as she moves, and she carries a small bag over one shoulder. She looks around the room and locks onto you, eyes lighting up as she quickly walks over. “That’s Mirabelle, she’ll be wanting to fight you first.”