Fic, Fight Night, Part 5 of 7, Fiver, 18
Sep. 7th, 2017 01:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fredbassettTitle : Fight Night, Part 5 of 7
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 18
Characters : Fiver
Disclaimer : Not mine (except Fiver and other OCs), no money made, don’t sue.
Word Count : 15,100 in 7 parts.
Spoilers : None
Summary : Fiver is down on his luck after being slung out of the army, but gets an offer he can’t refuse.
A/N : 1) Written for Soldiers Week as part of 52 Weeks of Primeval on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
primeval_denial 2) Part of my Stephen/Ryan series
Fiver jumped out of the back of the van and sniffed the air.
Pigs.
They were back at the grotty farm where he’d taken down the mixed-race lad.
There was another smell on the air this time: the sharp tang of anticipation. Fiver could hear the buzz of talk and laughter from the huge corrugated iron building that housed the staging for the fight. There were plenty of people prepared to pay through the nose to see a couple of blokes kick shit out of each other, and plenty – like Speight – who didn’t give a flying fuck what happened to those blokes.
Fiver was no fool. He knew there was no doctor waiting in the wings to patch up the losers.
He glanced over at the pig pens and felt a shiver run down his spine. If he was the one dragged out by his feet tonight, he knew fucking well where he’d end up. And there’d be nothing left to show that he’d ever fucking existed. Speight would pocket the kit bag full of cash and go looking for another mug. There was no shortage of ex-army lads on the streets who fancied themselves as the next Mike Tyson. And while the army continued to take ‘em in, train ‘em up and spit ‘em out there’d be no shortage of cannon fodder for fight rings.
“Last one,” Speight said, clapping Fiver on the shoulder. “I’ve laid on a girl for you tonight. Knockers like a pair of ripe melons.”
“Cheers, mate.” Fiver rubbed a hand over his stomach. “Reckon I need a dump.”
Speight curled his lips. “Big night nerves?”
“Last night’s manky kebab.”
Fiver headed off into the darkness behind one of the old trailers in the farmyard. The pigs carried on squeaking and grunting as he dropped his trousers and squatted.
*****
“You’re on in ten,” Speight said, with a radio handset held to his ear.
Fiver hadn’t been out of Speight’s sight since coming back out from behind the trailer. Something to do with the duffel bag stuffed full of 20 quid notes that was in the back of the van. Fiver had insisted on seeing the dosh before he’d agreed to the fight and since then, Speight had stuck to him like glue, even hanging around in the dingy bedroom back at the house while Fiver had showered. He was making fucking sure Fiver didn’t set up any sort of hasty get-out before the big fight.
Two warm-up acts had been scheduled before he was on. The first had finished quickly. The second was still in progress. The whoops and jeers from the crowd were already echoing around the yard. A whole new cycle was already in progress, with new blokes starting out, thinking they were going to make a fast buck. He wondered what had happened to the amiable Gazza. He’d not seen him for a couple of weeks. According to Speight, he’d taken his winnings and gone off to see his sister in Scotland. Fiver hoped it was true. He’d liked the bloke. The others he’d been up against hadn’t bothered to be friendly and, to be fair, he wouldn’t have pissed on most of them if they’d been on fire.
He leaned against the side of the van, trying to empty his mind. He needed to focus for what was coming next. He couldn’t afford to go into the next round anything less than fully mentally and physically prepared. After some deep, slow breathing, he started to go through a series of stretches to loosen his muscles while Speight watched him, an amused grin on his face.
Fiver heard a bleep from the radio and Speight moved away to talk to whoever was on the other end.
Two minutes later, a large truck rumbled into the farmyard.
Speight jerked a thumb at the end of the building the fighters used to go onto the stage. “Door on the left’s yours, mate. Don’t fucking let me down, OK? There’s a lot of dosh riding on this, so no nasty surprises.”
As motivational speeches went, that one sucked.
Fiver ignored him and made his way to the relevant door. The area inside had been changed since his last visit. Some partitioning had been erected, making the waiting area smaller. He presumed whoever he was up against was going to be brought in from the truck through the other door, so neither of the fighters could see each other before they stepped out onto the stage together.
A sudden eruption of noise told him the second bout was over, but the fighters didn’t come out to the area where he was waiting.
Keeping his breathing even and his mind empty of anticipation, Fiver continued with the stretches, counting down from five hundred in his head to give him something to focus on. He’d reached 294 in his head when the door to the arena opened and a bloke he didn’t recognise came out.
“You’re on.”
Fiver nodded. The yells from the crowd were loud in his ears and he could immediately see the bright lights focussed on the stage that would stop him picking out any faces in the crowd. He walked quickly through the door and heard it slam behind him. The rasp of the bolts on the other side of the door being slammed into place came as no surprise. Neither of them was going to be given the chance to cut and run.
Fiver’s pupils dilated against the sudden onslaught of bright light. In the same instant, his pulse jumped. The stage was twice the size it had been on his last visit and it was wholly surrounded by an enormous cage with heavy mesh two metres above his head. The fuckers really weren’t taking any chances this time.
The crowd started screaming and yelling, champagne corks popping like erratic gunfire.
Fiver was alone on the stage. He kept his limbs loose and backed up towards the door he’d just come through.
The second door opened and another barrage of corks popped.
A man, stripped to the waist, came out, blinking in the light. Fiver would have recognised those tattoos anywhere. Gazza. Not in Scotland with his sister, but looking as puzzled as Fiver felt. Gazza was good, but no more than that. Fiver could take him easily if he wanted to, but this crowd weren’t going to be satisfied with a bit of a staged knockout. They were baying for blood.
Gazza, like Fiver, looked like he’d been through the mill recently. The bright lights illuminated a mass of dark bruises that showed through even the mass of ink on the man’s torso. He’d taken a right kicking. A long, jagged cut on his bald head, pulled together with steri-strips, had leaked blood. His eyes were round with shock.
“Fiver? That you, mate?” He sounded hesitant, unlike the confident, cheerful Gazza he’d last met. “What the fuck’s goin’ on?”
“We’re in fuckin’ trouble, that’s what’s goin’ on.”
The crowd were jeering wildly now, scenting the fighters’ confusion, and baying for more blood.
The door Gazza had just come through opened again.
Fiver jumped forward, grabbed Gazza by the arm and dragged him across the stage. Gazza moved to block him, but his counter was too slow and, up close, Fiver saw the slightly unfocussed look in his eyes. He was concussed, but the fuckers had still sent him out to fight.
A loud squawk ricocheted around the huge barn, sounding like a gigantic parrot had just had all its tail feathers pulled out.
“Fuck.” Fiver shoved the confused, injured Gazza behind him.
A large, brightly-coloured creature stalked onto the stage. It looked like someone had taken the world’s biggest ostrich, pumped it full of steroids and sent it on a body-building course, as well as dressing it in gaudy plumage that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Brixton carnival. A thick ruff of iridescent blue feathers surrounded a neck thicker than both of Fiver’s thighs together. A sharp, curved yellow beak dominated a heavy head set with two small round black eyes that glimmered with malevolent intelligence. Its heavy body balanced on two strong, feathered legs, each of which ended in long, taloned claws, one of which was curved like a scimitar and would disembowel at a single stroke.
Fiver was dimly conscious of Gazza’s sharp intake of breath but then the crowd around them went wild, erupting into a cacophony of yells, equal part approving and awed.
The bird-thing stared around the cage, enraged rather than cowed by the noise, and screeched back at the audience, a long pink tongue protruding from the sharp beak.
“What the fuck’s that?” Gazza’s voice was shrill with shock.
“Deadly,” Fiver said, not taking his eyes off the creature. “Keep away from its feet. Those claws’ll have your guts out and on the floor like your gran’s fuckin’ knitting.”
Gazza dragged in a deep breath and stepped up to Fiver’s side. “I’ve heard the fuckin’ rumours but didn’t believe ‘em. Cunts, the fuckin’ lot of ‘em. Bet they’ve already trousered the dosh.” He was sounding quite lucid for a beat-up bloke with concussion facing a fucking feathered nightmare. Fiver just hoped Gazza still had some physical fight left in him.
He was going to need it.
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 18
Characters : Fiver
Disclaimer : Not mine (except Fiver and other OCs), no money made, don’t sue.
Word Count : 15,100 in 7 parts.
Spoilers : None
Summary : Fiver is down on his luck after being slung out of the army, but gets an offer he can’t refuse.
A/N : 1) Written for Soldiers Week as part of 52 Weeks of Primeval on
primeval_denial 2) Part of my Stephen/Ryan seriesFiver jumped out of the back of the van and sniffed the air.
Pigs.
They were back at the grotty farm where he’d taken down the mixed-race lad.
There was another smell on the air this time: the sharp tang of anticipation. Fiver could hear the buzz of talk and laughter from the huge corrugated iron building that housed the staging for the fight. There were plenty of people prepared to pay through the nose to see a couple of blokes kick shit out of each other, and plenty – like Speight – who didn’t give a flying fuck what happened to those blokes.
Fiver was no fool. He knew there was no doctor waiting in the wings to patch up the losers.
He glanced over at the pig pens and felt a shiver run down his spine. If he was the one dragged out by his feet tonight, he knew fucking well where he’d end up. And there’d be nothing left to show that he’d ever fucking existed. Speight would pocket the kit bag full of cash and go looking for another mug. There was no shortage of ex-army lads on the streets who fancied themselves as the next Mike Tyson. And while the army continued to take ‘em in, train ‘em up and spit ‘em out there’d be no shortage of cannon fodder for fight rings.
“Last one,” Speight said, clapping Fiver on the shoulder. “I’ve laid on a girl for you tonight. Knockers like a pair of ripe melons.”
“Cheers, mate.” Fiver rubbed a hand over his stomach. “Reckon I need a dump.”
Speight curled his lips. “Big night nerves?”
“Last night’s manky kebab.”
Fiver headed off into the darkness behind one of the old trailers in the farmyard. The pigs carried on squeaking and grunting as he dropped his trousers and squatted.
*****
“You’re on in ten,” Speight said, with a radio handset held to his ear.
Fiver hadn’t been out of Speight’s sight since coming back out from behind the trailer. Something to do with the duffel bag stuffed full of 20 quid notes that was in the back of the van. Fiver had insisted on seeing the dosh before he’d agreed to the fight and since then, Speight had stuck to him like glue, even hanging around in the dingy bedroom back at the house while Fiver had showered. He was making fucking sure Fiver didn’t set up any sort of hasty get-out before the big fight.
Two warm-up acts had been scheduled before he was on. The first had finished quickly. The second was still in progress. The whoops and jeers from the crowd were already echoing around the yard. A whole new cycle was already in progress, with new blokes starting out, thinking they were going to make a fast buck. He wondered what had happened to the amiable Gazza. He’d not seen him for a couple of weeks. According to Speight, he’d taken his winnings and gone off to see his sister in Scotland. Fiver hoped it was true. He’d liked the bloke. The others he’d been up against hadn’t bothered to be friendly and, to be fair, he wouldn’t have pissed on most of them if they’d been on fire.
He leaned against the side of the van, trying to empty his mind. He needed to focus for what was coming next. He couldn’t afford to go into the next round anything less than fully mentally and physically prepared. After some deep, slow breathing, he started to go through a series of stretches to loosen his muscles while Speight watched him, an amused grin on his face.
Fiver heard a bleep from the radio and Speight moved away to talk to whoever was on the other end.
Two minutes later, a large truck rumbled into the farmyard.
Speight jerked a thumb at the end of the building the fighters used to go onto the stage. “Door on the left’s yours, mate. Don’t fucking let me down, OK? There’s a lot of dosh riding on this, so no nasty surprises.”
As motivational speeches went, that one sucked.
Fiver ignored him and made his way to the relevant door. The area inside had been changed since his last visit. Some partitioning had been erected, making the waiting area smaller. He presumed whoever he was up against was going to be brought in from the truck through the other door, so neither of the fighters could see each other before they stepped out onto the stage together.
A sudden eruption of noise told him the second bout was over, but the fighters didn’t come out to the area where he was waiting.
Keeping his breathing even and his mind empty of anticipation, Fiver continued with the stretches, counting down from five hundred in his head to give him something to focus on. He’d reached 294 in his head when the door to the arena opened and a bloke he didn’t recognise came out.
“You’re on.”
Fiver nodded. The yells from the crowd were loud in his ears and he could immediately see the bright lights focussed on the stage that would stop him picking out any faces in the crowd. He walked quickly through the door and heard it slam behind him. The rasp of the bolts on the other side of the door being slammed into place came as no surprise. Neither of them was going to be given the chance to cut and run.
Fiver’s pupils dilated against the sudden onslaught of bright light. In the same instant, his pulse jumped. The stage was twice the size it had been on his last visit and it was wholly surrounded by an enormous cage with heavy mesh two metres above his head. The fuckers really weren’t taking any chances this time.
The crowd started screaming and yelling, champagne corks popping like erratic gunfire.
Fiver was alone on the stage. He kept his limbs loose and backed up towards the door he’d just come through.
The second door opened and another barrage of corks popped.
A man, stripped to the waist, came out, blinking in the light. Fiver would have recognised those tattoos anywhere. Gazza. Not in Scotland with his sister, but looking as puzzled as Fiver felt. Gazza was good, but no more than that. Fiver could take him easily if he wanted to, but this crowd weren’t going to be satisfied with a bit of a staged knockout. They were baying for blood.
Gazza, like Fiver, looked like he’d been through the mill recently. The bright lights illuminated a mass of dark bruises that showed through even the mass of ink on the man’s torso. He’d taken a right kicking. A long, jagged cut on his bald head, pulled together with steri-strips, had leaked blood. His eyes were round with shock.
“Fiver? That you, mate?” He sounded hesitant, unlike the confident, cheerful Gazza he’d last met. “What the fuck’s goin’ on?”
“We’re in fuckin’ trouble, that’s what’s goin’ on.”
The crowd were jeering wildly now, scenting the fighters’ confusion, and baying for more blood.
The door Gazza had just come through opened again.
Fiver jumped forward, grabbed Gazza by the arm and dragged him across the stage. Gazza moved to block him, but his counter was too slow and, up close, Fiver saw the slightly unfocussed look in his eyes. He was concussed, but the fuckers had still sent him out to fight.
A loud squawk ricocheted around the huge barn, sounding like a gigantic parrot had just had all its tail feathers pulled out.
“Fuck.” Fiver shoved the confused, injured Gazza behind him.
A large, brightly-coloured creature stalked onto the stage. It looked like someone had taken the world’s biggest ostrich, pumped it full of steroids and sent it on a body-building course, as well as dressing it in gaudy plumage that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Brixton carnival. A thick ruff of iridescent blue feathers surrounded a neck thicker than both of Fiver’s thighs together. A sharp, curved yellow beak dominated a heavy head set with two small round black eyes that glimmered with malevolent intelligence. Its heavy body balanced on two strong, feathered legs, each of which ended in long, taloned claws, one of which was curved like a scimitar and would disembowel at a single stroke.
Fiver was dimly conscious of Gazza’s sharp intake of breath but then the crowd around them went wild, erupting into a cacophony of yells, equal part approving and awed.
The bird-thing stared around the cage, enraged rather than cowed by the noise, and screeched back at the audience, a long pink tongue protruding from the sharp beak.
“What the fuck’s that?” Gazza’s voice was shrill with shock.
“Deadly,” Fiver said, not taking his eyes off the creature. “Keep away from its feet. Those claws’ll have your guts out and on the floor like your gran’s fuckin’ knitting.”
Gazza dragged in a deep breath and stepped up to Fiver’s side. “I’ve heard the fuckin’ rumours but didn’t believe ‘em. Cunts, the fuckin’ lot of ‘em. Bet they’ve already trousered the dosh.” He was sounding quite lucid for a beat-up bloke with concussion facing a fucking feathered nightmare. Fiver just hoped Gazza still had some physical fight left in him.
He was going to need it.
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no subject
Date: 2017-09-07 12:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-09-07 01:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-09-07 12:43 pm (UTC)That's a bloody brilliant twist!
Poor Fiver - and poor Gazza, too, concussed and still having to fight. At least they're not fighting each other. :(
You're wonderfully evil. Just perfect.
no subject
Date: 2017-09-07 01:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-09-07 04:36 pm (UTC)Keeps fingers firmly crossed for Fiver and Gazza.
no subject
Date: 2017-09-07 07:34 pm (UTC)Thanks for talking the time to comment on all of these, I really appreciate it! It's lovely to follow the progress through a series.
no subject
Date: 2017-09-07 08:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-09-07 08:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-09-08 06:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-09-08 07:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-09-08 08:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-09-08 08:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-09-08 09:27 pm (UTC)