The subway ringleader's name was Finlay—that was all that Viktor was told. With all honesty, that was all that he wanted to know. He didn't plan to get all buddy-buddy with those assholes, anyway.
The ambushers led him down the defunct and once-abandoned subway station, entering what amounted to a underground colony. He felt like he was being inducted into a mole-man tribe, seeing an entire gaggle of shoddily-dressed men living it up in what was essentially a cave village.
The subway colony ended where a cave-in had occurred nearly a decade ago, which never ended up getting fixed. The mole-men led by Finlay worked for years to turn that place into a livable space, converting old train cars into homes, building their own little tents and hovels, and overall starting their own secret society.
In an open area, in the middle of the arrangement, was a small fighting ring. It elevated on a platform made from scavenged wood and canvas, serving as the centerpiece for the entire station. It wasn't in use when Viktor saw it, but it was visibly weathered and had obviously seen much use. He digested its meaning with both anticipation and dread.
...
Finlay led Viktor deeper into the station, as far back as it reached. He was sat down in a particularly fancy train car. The fanciness wasn't any virtue of the car itself—it was just heavily modified with decorative elements to show off Finlay's relative strength and power, cementing him as the colony's leading figure. The interior was no less decorated, having actual upholstery presumably imported from the surface world. It even tapped into the subway lines for power, which had somehow never been disconnected from the grid.
Finlay planted his grungy ass onto a chair that looked like it belonged to a fancy, old-timey office. Before him was an antique table that had suffered wear and tear, but looked no less dignified. On the other side of it was a series of chairs, where Viktor was instructed to sit dead center. Beside him sat two of Finlay's men, further cramping the already closed-in space into something almost suffocating.
"Alright, kid," Finlay started, wearing a cocky grin. "Let's strike up a deal. I saw you fight, and you fight good. Got any experience?"
Viktor took a breath before answering, staring Finlay down with what meager defiance he could muster. "No. That was the first time I ever really fought anyone."
Finlay shifted in his chair, getting a more comfortable lean. "Ah, but you have 'fought' before. Come on, don't sell yourself short. Was it a scuffle? Get in a tussle with a shitty brother? A bratty sister, maybe?"
Viktor just kept staring, resisting the impulse to blink.
Seeing that, Finlay could only sigh. "Alright. Fine. Whatever. Keep your secrets." He shrugged, presenting an unaffected air. "Anyway... I want you to fight for me. Make us some money, ya dig? Whaddya say?"
"What kind of fighting?" Viktor asked.
Finlay snorted. "Why, in a cage, of course! Come on, think about it." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes glinting as he grinned. "An animal like you, thrown into one o' them rings and having other guys forced in there to try their luck at beating ya. You could be an underground superstar!"
Viktor leaned back in his own chair, keeping his chin down and his gaze forward. "You do realize I'm still a kid, right?"
Tilting his head back and to the side, Finlay went "Pfah!" and swatted at the air. "I've seen kids younger than you try their luck brawling for money. Managed a few of 'em myself. What, don't tell me you're just pussy? Is that it? Big man with claws really just a little kitten with soft, delicate nails?"
Eye twitching, Viktor felt his hair bristle up. He furrowed his brows, and the world dimmed around him. Considering the sensations in his eyeballs and Finlay's incessant references to cats, then he must have presented as explicitly feline. From those assumptions, his pupils had likely slimmed to slits as a stress response, keeping him from getting too overwhelmed by reducing the amount of light he needed to process.
"Just don't wanna get cheated out of what I'm really worth," Viktor finally said. Something shifted in Finlay's expression, though he didn't quite get what. He continued. "How're the fights gonna happen, anyway? That ring I saw back there? I don't wanna be thrown into a fight as is, and I sure as hell don't want to fight without any real rules."
Breathing loudly out of his nose, Finlay's grin relaxed into a lopsided smile. "You're trying too hard, kid, but alright. Here's the deal: you got talent, and I can help you make bank off it. Keep you fed, too. What I want in exchange is returns. I'll let you get in that private ring with some of my guys to practice fighting for a few weeks... then we take you to one of the Penguin's digs. Surely, you know who that is?"
Viktor nodded without a word.
"Good!" Finlay pulled a rectangular tin case from under his torn jacket, and popped it open to take out and light a cigarette. "Now, let these guys show you where you're staying," he said, gesturing to the men flanking Viktor with his cig. "Tomorrow, you either get to blow off some steam or get your teeth kicked in."
...
And so, that was Viktor's life for the meantime. Escape wasn't an option during that period.
For one, how could he leave? He was surrounded by danger every waking moment. As he was, there was no possibility of escape. Even if he could escape by some miracle, where would he go? How would he live? He was literally bedridden for the entirety of his old life, with no real outside-world experience to build off of.
His best shot was to bide his time until a real opportunity for change came up. In the meantime... well, if there was anything he knew about superpowers, they could be trained.
...
Viktor's first week in 'training' was the worst.
Anyone that Finlay sent him to held nothing back. Though he managed to fend himself off in a life-or-death scenario, things were different with rules. In a ring where fighters were only allowed to use blunt strikes but barred nothing in regards to tactics, he found himself completely outmatched.
His first 'spar' had him beaten black and blue by a massive thug. Fucker must have been at least three times his body weight. He healed quickly enough after the fact, but even after his bones set and the bruises faded, he could still feel the stinging pain.
After that first session ended, Viktor woke up sprawled out on the canvas with Finlay standing over him. "Hey, kid. You still alive?"
"Barely," he rasped.
Finlay snorted. "Just hang in there. We'll turn you into a real fighter yet."
"Well, I'm still breathin'... fuck, I think I busted a rib."
Finlay grinned over him. "Get used to that. Where you're goin', a busted rib's the least of your concerns. And I just got off a call with one of Penguin's kennel masters. I got ya in as an appetizer."
Viktor, still breathing heavy from pain, groaned out, "The fuck's an appetizer?"
"Means you get to warm up the audience for the real fights to come." Finlay clapped his shoulder, and pulled him up by the sleeve. "Now, go get cleaned and rest up. We need you big and strong in three weeks' time."
...
By the second week, things had become routine. Viktor would rouse early to get his belly filled. He had to eat canned food heated directly over a bonfire, but it was better than what he expected, which was rat stew and roasted roaches. After breakfast, he would have to get his ass handed to him by another violent thug.
To his own credit though, he adapted quickly. He started dishing back blows when before, he could only weather the onslaughts. Unfortunately, that was also the time that Finlay decided he needed to get two rounds of sparring a day—one in the morning, and another before dinner.
His treatment during the 'spars' never got better, but some of the mole-men seemed to have taken a liking to him for his apparent tenacity. He started getting extra shares of food from then on, even if they were tiny. He'd also started putting on a surprising amount of muscle by that time.
He made a point to keep it hidden as much as he could.
...
The third week was simultaneously the easiest to weather, but also the toughest on Viktor's mental. He had to fight people with actual skill then. Proper fighters. Those who didn't need to compensate with brawn, or with sheer stubbornness like he did.
Since he could barely keep up, he'd gotten more than his fair share of harsh beatings. Before, all he had to deal with were bruises and broken bones, and he'd learned to minimize those injuries with clever maneuvers and tricking his opponents. Currently, on top of his usual injuries, he also had to deal with dislocated joints, getting absolutely bamboozled in a fight, and having his ego terribly bruised.
After one of his spars with the 'pros' of Finlay's colony, he sat by one of the fires and reset his shoulder. He'd gotten better at doing that. It would have set on its own because of his healing factor, but he'd rather have it back in its socket sooner rather than later.
"Fuck's sake," he hissed. "It's like they get off on busting my ass or something..."
The man beside him laughed. "Careful with your wording there, Vik. Still hurting?"
"Well, duh," he replied, pupils thinning into slits as he stared the fire down. More accurately, he hungrily eyed at the shoddy meat skewers that had been set by the flame. "Mind if I pick one of 'em roasts off o' ya?"
"Knock yerself out," the man replied. "I say ya earned it."
...
Three weeks. A little over twenty days went and passed, and it was finally time. Finlay would take Viktor to one of the Penguin's fighting pits.
'Iceberg Lounge... fuck, I want Batman to just raid that place so I can run in the chaos.'
৹ ◎ ◉ ◎ ৹
A broad silhouette prowled through the city. It kept to the shadows, blending in almost seamlessly with the dark garments that it wore. Two sharp points poked up from its head like little animal ears. Yellow eyes gleamed from certain angles, and the only bit of skin left exposed was the lower half of the figure's face.
Though massive, this mystery person's movements were so quiet that only the barest tips and taps could be heard—exclusively through still silence, at that. Clawed hands helped it climb vertical surfaces, and the wall it currently ascended belonged to the Iceberg Lounge.
'One of my informants said there's a kid being forced to fight here. I'll see if I can't snatch him away tonight.'
He peered down through skylights and holes in the structure, scanning the crowds for his supposed targets. It was a dizzying deluge of moving bodies within, but his sharp eyesight let him pick out what he was looking for.
Coming in through the entrance was a small group. They were dressed in rags, though protected by thick layers. Their appearances were disheveled, but there was no mistaking that glint in their eyes. That alertness. The guile.
Among them, one stood out: small, almost scrawny, yet altogether tenacious. A young man—no, a kid—who put up a tough front. He didn't belong.
His yellow eyes were already scanning the crowd warily. Gaze darting, he seemed to look for exits as well. His posture was hunched subtly, closing in defensively, and his gait implied coiled muscles ready to explode when a chance for escape presented itself.
And there, right next to him... that face was familiar. The informant.
The sneaking figure slinked away from the skylight that he had peered in through, resolving himself to break in and give that kid a chance to run away—alongside anyone else who had the same idea and could capitalize on the chaos he would sow.
৹ ◎ ◉ ◎ ৹
The Iceberg Lounge's sublevels were something else. Their existence was no secret to anyone in Gotham, but most people just ignored it. After all, why would anyone cross Oswald Cobblepot? Or any other of the city's Kings of Crime, for that matter.
Gossip was painfully useful to Viktor. Useful because, well, any knowledge was good knowledge if you knew how to use it. Painful, because though he could pick out conversations through the vocal drone, the sheer noise in his current environment still put significant strain on his senses.
"Through here, kid." Finlay cut through the crowd of odd- and well-dressed individuals. "Let me do the all the talking, yeah?" he said along the way. "You try too hard in a conversation. You'd get yourself fucked over without someone to talk for you."
The whole thing was short-lived. Finlay led him into an out-of-the-way room and went through formalities with an organizer. Viktor's bracket was set as one of the opening 'acts,' Finlay paid a fee, and they were promised returns after the fact in exchange for their contributions. Supposedly, the fee was insurance should they get cold feet or negatively affect the 'show.' Additionally, depending on Viktor's performance, they could get a bigger payout...
...
For roughly an hour, Viktor waited anxiously in the fighters' room. It was just him there, alongside every other 'normal' fighter that would serve as the ease-in entertainment. Though he hated Finlay's guts, he was at least a familiar presence. Among these hardened individuals, he felt well and truly alone.
'Cat among wolves and lions. Great. Just great. Totally not about to piss myself right now. Fuck my life.'
Luckily, those fighters knew better than to disrespect Oswald Cobblepot and cause a scene. Though some snarked and sneered at Viktor in passing, nobody openly confronted him. None of them got physical either, beyond bumping into him on purpose a few times. Viktor pushed back, of course, which was amusing to the ones who saw.
Fighters came and went, either returning a little bruised, or being carted straight to the lounge's medical facilities. It was during the third match that someone approached Viktor.
"Heyyyy," greeted a man quite a ways younger than all the rest, yet still a handful of years older than him. "Just peeked at the brackets. You're 'Claw,' right?"
Viktor groaned. "Yeah, that uh... my handler gave me that alias."
"What's your real name, then?" the young man asked curiously, though he seemed to catch himself before Viktor could reply. "Oh, and I don't fight under an alias. Name's Victor. Looks like we're gonna be pitted against each other soon."
Viktor—with a K—had his pupils narrow into slits for just one moment. Luckily, Victor-with-a-C failed to notice. 'Claw' raised his head and looked at his opponent-to-be for the first time, doing his best to be subtle as he analyzed the young man before him. Well-kept, dirty blonde hair. Eyes that radiated kindness. A flawless smile.
And yet, deep in the pit of Viktor's stomach, the thrum of fear stirred. There was something deeply, intrinsically wrong with this man. There was no mistaking it—he was to fight Victor Zsasz. What confirmed it was a quick, sneaky glance to his arms—tally marks just barely peeking out of the sleeves.
"Uh... I don't think it's good to get all buddy-buddy with competition," Viktor said in an attempt at deflecting the conversation.
"Oh, come on," Zsasz whined. "Don't be like that! Could you tell me your name, at least?"
"Hell no," he all but growled, accompanied by an odd, roiling timbre that he could have never imagined coming his throat.
Zsasz' face shifted to a defeated frown, though for a split second, there was the distinct presence of wrathful contempt in the transition. Viktor ignored it and let his opponent walk away, who said, "Well, good luck in the ring... I tried to be friendly."
৹ ◎ ◉ ◎ ৹
Unconscious bodies lay strewn across the security room. It took a lot of work sneaking into it and subsequently defeating everyone, but he finally managed it. Nobody died, though—these were employees, not ruffians. All they did was watch and make sure peace was kept at their place of work. They were employed by a crime lord, yes, but... in Gotham, who wasn't?
He stepped over a fat guard's body and braced himself against the security room's control panel. He scanned his eyes over the numerous screens for his target.
One screen. Two screens. Then, four, then eight.
Soon, there it was. A fighter by the alias 'Claw' was called into one of the smaller cages, along with one who went by the name Victor Zsasz.
'This is bad,' he thought. 'Cobblepot doesn't let kids fight unless they're metahumans. I need to get him outta here before he gets brainwashed by that money-grubbing freak.'
Sighing, he propped up everyone in the security room, set them up with timed stim shots, and slinked away to get in position for a rescue.
'No matter how many times I do this, I always feel like a kidnapper type of creep...'
—=—=—=—=—=—=—=—
[A/N]: Hallo, everynyan!
One last bit of setup before this 'opening arc's' climax. I wonder... who is this guy we kept getting perspective from in this chapter?
Also, wehehey! They're name twins! Viktor vs Victor. Wonder who'll win...? 🤔
One more chapter to come out next week, and these'll become irregular; no schedule. I'm focusing on my primary fic for the next few months. This was just... a break, shall we say. A diversion of sorts.
Though again, if you want me to focus on Gotham's Sabretooth instead of DC: Symbol's Rising, I could be bribed with enough donations or subscriptions to my Ko-fi... ohohohohohoh~