#TheMidnightFights - 2

12 AM. Midnight.

The old warehouse at the end of Royale Street looms ominously over the three of them.

Honey feels stupid she didn’t guess it before, then again she never visited the street after dark. Still, it was blindingly obvious that of course this place would be used for an underground fight club.

It’s eerily quiet, however, and there isn’t a single student loitering around the area. A muffled rumble of voices churning amidst the deafening quiet adds to the unsettling ambiance.

“Honey, tap your phone to mine” Elias holds out his own device.

Skeptically, she does.

The same hyperlink (sans pawn icon) from her fight on the riverbank appears. It asks for registration. A tap of a button, a ring of a notification bell, and a chessboard appears on her screen

“You can put in any username you want.”

Naturally, Honey uses her Sinstagram tag.

“This will get us into the warehouse as spectators. Since it can only be downloaded through a private link, I asked any of my fanclub if they had access. Luckily one of them did!”

Ah, the perks of being popular, having everyone and anyone wrapped around your little finger, willing to do anything for you at the drop of a hat.

Honey feels a pang of jealousy.

She tugs on her bangs to make it go away.

“Someone’s paying a lot of money to keep this running properly.” Misha says bitterly, glaring at the checkered icon on his screen.

Honey’s not interested in whatever wealthy, pompous stain on society decided to fund The Midnight Fights for their own sick entertainment. 

It’s not her problem.

Whoever was at the head of this operation was Honey’s insurance that it’d keep going even after she became The King. And regained her precious reputation.

“Can we pick up the pace and just take me there already,” Honey snaps.

They both give her an exasperated look, their distressed wigs making their expressions worse.

Misha had said The King showed up only occasionally. The elite 4 Rankers were supposed to appear more often, at least once a week depending on The King’s demands. If people wanted to watch the fights, they showed up as spectators.

The only thing that concerns Honey is that Charlotte might be there. Charlotte and her disgusting grin. Charlotte and her beady, snake-like eyes.

Oh, how Honey wishes Charlotte was a part of The Midnight Fights so she could freely beat the smirk off her face. Destroying her royal reputation was just barely acceptable.

Down a road perpendicular to Royale Street and through a cramped alley with a hissing cat, Honey smacks her head against an air conditioning unit and swears she ran into a cobweb. Then the narrow alleyway leads to a strange gated maze of concrete walls, some crumbling with rebar poking out until they come upon a chainlink fence.

Behind it, stands the warehouse, engulfed in overgrown weeds and exhausted-looking trees. Two sets of large rusted doors open at intervals to swallow students in small groups. Probably to keep in the noise. It’s barely audible with the doors shut.

There’s an overwhelmingly large group of students that look like they just crawled out of the sewers.

Greasy, unkempt, acne ridden looking rats.

It reminds Honey of Godforsaken High if everyone at Godforsaken High committed a criminal offense and were currently serving parole. 

Also if they just so happened to be voted 'Most Ugly' in the school yearbook.

There’s a mix of boys and girls, all siphoning into a single gate through the chain fence. A massive student blocks the entrance, bulky arms crossed over his belly like a bar bouncer. He checks people’s phones before allowing them to pass.

“Do they pay that musclebrain or something?” Honey leans over to Elias.

“Probably with the bets from the fights? He must be a high ranker to have a job like this, only The King can appoint people to certain tasks for a sum of money.”

So like a real king. Honey swoons over the power that must come with it.

In fact, she daydreams so much, she runs right into Misha, the oversized buffoon had to always take up her personal space.

But he seems off.

Misha clings a bit to Elias and it’s strange to see such a tall teenager look so timid. He’s hiding it surprisingly well, sharp expression remaining fairly normal, however, there are moments where his eyes drift off and Honey knows he’s not looking at the dilapidated scenery.

She could’ve gone on her own. Point her towards the warehouse with the secret app in her possession and she’d be out of their hair. That way she didn’t have two nitwits to drag her down.

Honestly, it might've been better for all of them. Misha clearly doesn’t want to be here.

Something makes her itch.

It's weird

Why doesn’t she want to go on her own?

Elias’ eyes slide from Misha to her, and it’s a look she can’t ignore. Honey capitulates.

Fine. She decides to behave. She needs to know how this whole thing works anyway since the consequences of slipping up might be dire. These people look like they could kill her in cold blood and though confident in her own abilities, she doesn’t want to test her luck this first night.

This is a loose contract between her and Elias.

It’ll probably last all of about two seconds.

Then a familiar vulture-looking freak makes her face twist in disgust.

The boy and his gang hang closely around the huge bouncer student, talking to him casually and somewhat helping check phones for the chessboard icon. They’re approaching the front of the line fast and she ducks behind the student in front of her.

“It’s that number 15 kid,” Honey whispers behind her shoulder.

Both Elias and Misha peek over her head. Misha pulls down his hat and Elias adjusts his fake glasses higher on his nose.

Phones outstretched and heads partially obscured, hoping the night acts as some sort of camouflage, they hurry past the bouncer and luckily slip in without a hitch.

Until,

Honey’s hood gets caught on one of the unhappy looking trees in the warehouse courtyard and her beautiful hair is fully exposed. There’s no way anyone else had curls like these, if she had any fans amongst the crowd, they’d spot her in an instant.

Honey doesn’t have fans amongst the crowd.

She has haters.

She sees the moment the vulture’s eyes widen in recognition.

Dammit.

“That’s that girl!” He’s tugging on the bouncer’s sleeve and pointing wildly at Honey like she’s some sort of roadshow.

Honey’s running before she hears anymore, her unused skates tossed over her shoulder and beating on her back, dragging her companions with her although they’re tripping over their own feet to keep up.

They slide into the huge rusted doors just before they close, pulled by two other students who look like they lift cars for a living. She sees the vulture boy still pointing frantically at them and knows they won’t be safe forever.

Then the second pair of doors behind them open.

It’s really the smell that gets to Honey first.

She gags as soon as the doors open to reveal the infamous Midnight Fight arena. It is the rank stench of a gym with no ventilation, a public bathroom, and a garbage dump all wrapped neatly into this dingy auditorium sized room.

Rust drips from the walls, threatening tetanus if your skin lightly brushes against the surface. There are suspicious barrels along the sides and piles and piles of cigarette butts. Ashes are scattered everywhere on the floor.

Alcohol bottles and cans, crushed underfoot or rolling around at everyone’s feet. Glass littering the ground like a surprise trap, one trip and you’ll be picking out shards for days.

Everything is dirty, sweaty, or foul. Especially the people.

There are probably over a hundred students occupying this single floor and everyone is pushed up against each other, sharing the same disgusting breaths.

Some of the teens are peering over a rickety metal network of platforms suspended above the crowds. This run-down skeleton of a second-floor looks ready to fall at any moment.

Fights are happening left and right.

Most of them are contained in the five painted circles hashed out beneath everyone, but other small skirmishes don't hesitate to break out around them. 

Just teenagers letting out their anger and angst with their unrestrained fists.

Of course, she didn’t picture some glamorous professional ring or stadium, but this was just beyond even her lowest expectations.

The smell alone almost makes her want to go home and forget her petty revenge.

Almost.

At the front of the room stands an enormous shipping crate. The graffiti defacing its side are the elite chess pieces. On the right are The Rook and The Knight, on the left The Bishop and The Queen.

A single folding chair sits on top of the crate. Doused in harsh lighting, better lit than the rest of the building. For a cheap, plastic piece of furniture, it’s incredibly intimidating.

Mainly because behind it loomed a stained concrete wall.

On it, a painted crown.

A simple ring with three spikes protruding from the top, illustrated in just about every color imaginable as if they had drawn over it hundreds of times in different hues.

A throne fit for a king.

It’s not exactly Honey’s style or even close to her standards, but she’s drawn to that pathetic looking folding chair like a meteor to gravity.

She feels the weight of its importance. And the fame that comes with it.

Honey wants that throne.

She’ll even endure the vomit-inducing stench for it.

“Hey hotshot,” Misha calls her over to a little makeshift booth by the main doors.

He sounds less anxious, minimally, but he seems to have figured out that if Elias is within an arm’s length of him, he’ll be alright.

Misha nods towards the student behind the booth, which is really just a table with a secondhand canopy over it. A row of browning shoe lockers acts as a back wall.

“Give them your phone.”

Honey’s thoughts come to a screeching halt.

“What?”

“Your phone,” Misha says as if it’s explanation enough, “if you’re not in The Rankings or planning to fight today you have to check it in.”

Honey blinks wordlessly.

She looks to Elias.

“Recording and pictures aren’t allowed in the warehouse,” Elias tells her with a pitying look.

Never mind, she doesn’t need them anymore.

“No!” Honey backs away like she’s been stung.

“Honey you-”

“I was in The Rankings,” She tries, but the student behind the booth looks unconvinced.

Can’t she just slip away without them knowing? If that was even possible. With her beautiful face, it’d be hard to blend in with this awful crowd. She’d be turning heads everywhere she went.

The student waves his fingers for her to give up her phone.

“If you’re not fighting today, hand it over.”

Misha’s face lacks the gloom it had on earlier, now he just looks annoyed.

Honey should be the one who’s annoyed. She didn’t hear anything about having to surrender her phone to this student’s filthy hands.

“I’m fighting today!” Honey blurts, much to her companions’ dismay.

There’s an awkward pause of silence that seems to resonate throughout the entire warehouse. Like they were all listening in to this altercation although the ambient noise was deafening.

And there it was again.

Humiliation. The condescending jeers and looks of contempt, like she was some sort of pest they needed to squash or a circus animal failing to perform an amusing trick.

Oh how she loathes it.

A certain feeling rises from her stomach into her throat. Honey didn’t know embarrassment like this until her first year in high school. The vile emotion thrown in her face like a solid punch to her flawless complexion. 

Powerless before, now Honey feels her blood boil.

When she becomes King, none of these insignificant little pricks would dare look at her this way again. She wouldn’t let it happen.

This wouldn’t be like last year.

“There, there she is!”

The vulture kid. Perfect timing, she needs a face to smash in.

“Ready to lose your pawn again?” Honey feels her hands squeeze into fists.

Elias tugs on her sweatshirt sleeve.

“Honey, this is probably a bad idea…”

“If it bothers you, take Misha and leave. It’s not like I need you here anymore.”

Misha gives her a look that says he wants to give her a piece of his mind, but her eyes fall back onto her current target.

If she had to fight, so be it.

Her loose agreement to Elias be damned, there was no way she’d stay a silent observer today. It was a useless promise to begin with.

And although the unruly crowd around her laughs and snickers insults at Honey, her own pounding pulse drowns it out.

“I won’t be losing anything today, blondie,” He spits.

Who did this skeleton looking idiot think he was? He didn’t so much as take a single blow before surrendering his pawn number to her. Unless he had been training on a mountain top somewhere for the past few days since she kneed him in the ribs, this would be another easy win.

Or so she thinks.

However, the vulture boy isn’t with his former gang, the wimps that could barely stand on their own two feet. No, instead he’s got a new friend.

The giant bouncer from outside.

This student (was this a student?) looks like he was carved right out of a cliffside. He’s about twice her size, towering over her and just about everyone else in the auditorium, wide shoulders blocking out the flickering light overhead and casting her in shadow.

But, as Misha and Elias are painfully aware, someone doesn’t simply overshadow Honey.

Whether the coward or the behemoth, Honey doesn’t hesitate. She shifts her weight onto one hip, arms folded arrogantly against her chest and glares her new opponent straight in the eyes.

Like the freak-out in the classroom and the incident on the riverbank, Honey’s eyes glow with a terrible lust for blood. She won’t listen to anyone’s reasoning like this.

“So you two fighting?” The student behind the booth says rather bored, used to these predictable staredowns.

Honey’s face breaks into a malevolent grin.

“Absolutely,”

“Alright,” He turns to the auditorium and announces, “Clear a ring for blondie here with no rank, and Ben the Boulder with Pawn Rank 6!”