Qi Zhaolin vs. Shadow Vigo Zakirov

You had arrived on Arx after hearing word of a fighting tournament. It had been set up by the Combat Master and had been advertised as a Revival of the long held tradition of naming a Champion of the Antei Combat Center. As you had arrived at the signup table after waiting in line, you were met by a Trandoshan who looked you up and down, said nothing, and slid a form attached to a clipboard to you. A cheap chain linked a pen to the clipboard.

You read it over and it was a standard legal waiver noting that you could not hold the Combat Master or the Brotherhood liable for any injuries or even potential death that occurred during the tournament. You were entering this tournament of your own free will. Any and all repercussions of doing so were at no one’s fault but your own.

You signed, and the Trandoshan hissed with delight as he pointed to a door behind the table. A cheap paper sign was taped to the door that read “ACC Championship Introductory Meeting” in what looked to be felt-tipped black marker. You stepped inside the dark room and that is the last thing you remember until you woke up just now.

The world around you was dark… and soft. The area that you lay on felt just a bit more firm than a standard pillow. A quick check of yourself revealed that you still wore and carried everything you had when you had signed the waiver. While vision was extremely limited, you could tell that someone else was in the room with you. Four ceiling lights clicked on, one at a time, giving the room a bright glow beneath the four lights, but an eerie darkness outside of their radiance. You were in a padded room with a barred and sealed door. Every surface of the room was covered in thick, firm padded square tiles. You lay on a bed made of the same material in one corner of the room, while someone laid in another bed in the opposite corner. It was too dark to make out their figure well.

A holoprojection dropped from the ceiling, giving the room a pale blue glow. It was Combat Master Vincent Brujah. The Sith smirked as he began speaking.

“So, you’ve signed up for the tournament? Where I come from, that makes you a little crazy. I’ve taken you to a more appropriate environment for someone with your condition.”

As he smiled, pink mist began spraying from the ceiling at the same location as the lights. Slowly, what little you could see of the full room began to tint pink. The Combat Master’s smile grew wider.

“And if you weren’t crazy before… well… we can fix that. The effects of this drug will be pleasant… at first. You must be careful, though. Take too big of a dose and things can get downright terrifying, or so I’ve heard. Prolonged exposure will result in death.”

He shrugged slightly.

“The only way out of this room and into safe air is when I tell my crew to open the door, and I’m only going to do that when there is one of you left capable of walking away. Until then, enjoy the ride.”

The holoprojection blinked away. There was no starting whistle. No horn. No audience. Just silence, dim light, and the realization that the longer you sit there, the closer you would come to death.

A sharp intake of breath expanded his lungs as Zhaolin came to awareness. Blinking rapidly at the holoprojection, the words spoken slipped loosely around his mind. Nothing seemed to stick and he shook his head slightly as if to dislodge his disorientation. He'd been knocked out enough times in his life to recognize that had happened at least. This was certainly not what he'd expected when he'd signed up for a fight. The pink mist settled over them like a light, damp blanket and the fine hairs stood along the back of his neck. His immediate vicinity was oddly soft and padded; stark contrast to the sands of the Pit. It was, to Zhaolin, a very strange place for a fight but he didn't particularly care.

Gaze casting about the space, his eyes landed on his opponent. The other male looked to be roughly the same size as Zhaolin, though he was lithe to Zhaolin's slightly heavier build. Grey eyes met silver-blue from across the room. Anticipation coiled, serpentine and insistent in his gut. His body knew what to do, but something about that pink mist made his head feel like it was stuffed full of clouds. It was a pleasantly numb sensation that made direct thoughts meander sluggishly. The disconnect between muscle memory and thought made him unsteady as he rose, stumbling slightly with a disturbed grunt.

He did not like this. In all his years of combat, he'd been in control of his faculties. No drug or chemical interference had played a part in his gladiatorial upbringing. Chest rising and falling in a staccato pattern, he glared his displeasure at his cellmate as if they had any control over the situation. A fluid, practiced motion brought his fists up into a defensive stance, the center of gravity seeming to roll this away and that as an unfamiliar heat rose along his silvery-pale skin. His counterpart appeared to be affected similarly, pupils dilating almost comically as the pair squared off.

Whatever that mist was, it was fucking with him. It had started out as a cozy warmth, soft with that pins and needles feeling of a limb asleep. Now it grew hotter, uncomfortable as high noon on a midsummer's day. A fine sheen of sweat rose to coat his skin as he circled the other, careful not to cross steps despite the uneasy sway of his body. Irritation replaced anticipation. Zhaolin hissed, lip curling back to reveal the wicked white curve of canines. One step, two steps to the right, a sharp intake of breath preceded his movement. Lifting his right leg in several unfulfilled kicks, he struck out fully on the third lift, aiming for the knee. A step back carried the man out of Zhaolin's range and they faced off once more.

"Your name?"

Zhaolin's voice was strange to his own ears, the sound both disorienting and grating on his eardrums. Not one for many words, he fixed his attention to how the other's feet moved across the padded floor. The surface had give to it though it was lighter and less prone to trapping feet than the thick sands of the fighting pit he'd been raised in. This man too had clearly had some education in fighting, evidenced by the care taken in how he stepped. Their movements were not quite mirrored, but spoke to a level of experience on both sides.

"Vigo Zakirov." Grey eyes moved over Zhaolin in a calculated, assessing sweep, "And you are?"

Zhaolin nearly missed the blade that was produced, but the edge caught the dim light and refracted into a thousand different colors. It was only the hours of drills, the perfected muscle memory that had his palm shooting out to collide with Vigo's wrist as his mind reeled with the kaleidoscope that danced in his head. Following the momentum, Vigo let Zhaolin push the blade off course and adjusted the angle upward toward the hybrid's face. A grunt of annoyance escaped him as he pivoted to bring himself along side Vigo and out of the blade's trajectory.

"Zhaolin."

Looking for an opportunity to grab the lighter man, they began to circle each other again. Each occasionally testing an opening with blade or fist. There were no places to hide in the padded room, though the beds jutting out from the walls did make for a tripping hazard if they drew too close. Both were already sweating despite having only just begun and it let Zhaolin know that he was not the only one that was being swept up by the effects of the strange mist. Not only did it make his vision swim and his head feel oddly full and empty at the same time, the ever increasing fever under his skin was enraging him.