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"Champions League:" An Ink Fighter's Story—Chapter 1
🕑 Added 2024-08-21 15:33:12 +0000 UTCChapter 1: The Champion Falls
by Ella Powell
Edited by Chris Moujaes
He got his first sigil when he was nine. Behind a convenience store, somewhere halfway between Pandemonium and his destination of Canis Major. He’d grown up around Ink Fighters and watched the process many times. Lured to Fortuna by the promise of a better life for an Ink Fighter.
The kid was scrawny but had naturally wide, larger shoulders. His hair was extremely curly and thick but kept short and neat. His skin was dark and peeling along his knuckles. He was still small but, thanks to his early training, he was already developing muscles along his arms and legs.
The kid expected the familiar buzz of the tattoo machine, but when the Ink Artist pressed the pedal to test it, there wasn’t a sound. Instead, he felt a strange, invisible pull in the air. Just as the artist released the pedal, a spark of blue static rippled through the ink, like lightning traveling from the needle back into the machine. The gruff man, his skin marked with as many scars as tattoos—sigils—continued to prepare the workstation.
The Ink Artist caught him eyeing a particularly long scar that ran from his ear down to his neck. The kid, who didn't fit in the oversized seat, looked away.
“Got this one a year ago.” The Ink Artist stretched his wide shoulders and sniffed casually as if getting constantly mauled by payback was no big deal.
“Um, thanks for… doing this,” the kid whispered nervously, avoiding the scar and letting his eyes drift to a rusted metal sign on the wall. It read, “Customers must be 14 years or older—but the rest was too rusted to make out”
The man paused his prep work to take a long, luxurious drag on his cigar—an expensive-looking one, oddly out of place among the old, rusting equipment. He exhaled, adding to the smoke already filling the room. On the table near his station, a lunch sack filled with cash lay carefully placed, its contents spilling onto the surface. The Ink Artist shrugged and glanced at the med kits beside him—tools he’d need once the task was complete.
The kid was strapped to the chair. Squirming during the inking process could increase the danger, especially for the artist, who was already bearing the brunt of the risk. That was likely why he was so expensive, even for a small piece. Ink Fighting was a challenging form of karmastry where the Ink Artist absorbed the payback upfront as the sigil was created, allowing fighters to use their abilities without fear of consequences. It was costly, powerful—and worth every penny.
“Try not to be scared—it makes the payback come faster.”
“I'm not scared,” The kid said, gritting his teeth in determination.
“That's what they all say.”
The Ink Artist dipped the needle into the glowing black ink. This time, the kid saw it clearly—a bolt of karma surged through the ink, into the machine, and back again, like a battery charging. As the thin needle pierced his skin, it felt less like a permanent mark and more like it was drawing energy from within him. Somewhere behind the Ink Artist, a groan echoed. The room grew darker, and the man tensed, working faster.
The pain was unimaginable. Even as the kid’s vision blurred with tears of agony, he noticed the shadow behind the Ink Artist growing larger with each stroke of the ink gun. The payback loomed, its claws inching closer to the artist’s neck.
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The lights around the raised arena danced in a bright, hot yellow glow, illuminating the two foes. A punch to the face made his opponent cry out in pain and stumble backward, clutching his injured hand. Conrad Welsh wasn’t called Lockjaw for nothing—the rippling armor sigil tattooed across his jaw was proof of that. Conrad, aka Lockjaw, was a body-study Ink Fighter, using karmastry-infused sigils to enhance the toughness of his skin and bones. His first sigil, inked behind a convenience store, had since been joined by many more. But his fighting skills were all his own; a master of mixed martial arts and boxing, he was a favorite competitor.
The cage of the Ink Fighter Champions was alive with energy. The crowd screamed his name as he danced around his injured opponent, an animal-study Ink Fighter with a tiger-clawed, morphed fist. But this augmentation was no match for Lockjaw's toughened skin. His opponent growled, grunting as he activated another sigil, causing his teeth to grow into razor-sharp knives resembling a tiger's fangs. He leaped across the large caged ring toward Lockjaw.
Lockjaw was no fool. As a seasoned fighter, he ducked, allowing his opponent's monstrous, cat-like leap to drive him headfirst into the metal cage. Lockjaw was on him in a flash, bashing his hardened fists into the opponent's back, the sides of his head, and his nose. Before anyone knew it, it was over. Another opponent defeated, with referees pulling Lockjaw off his foe.
The announcer's voice, amplified by karma-powered speakers, boomed over the roaring crowd that watched from the raised seats surrounding the cage. “Your league champion for two years running, everyone’s favorite, LOCKJAWWWW!”
Lockjaw climbed the cage in celebration, pounding his chest and lightly punching his jaw in his signature move, showing off his toughness. The unnatural pop of yellow and gold lights spun around the ring, focusing their spotlights on him, using their magic to make him glow and sparkle in the uproar of his victory.
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Conrad slipped through the Haven Hideaway Hotel (or the HHH, as the locals called it), a large, baggy sweatshirt covering his head and concealing him from the rich bystanders in the hotel lobby. He had no time for pictures and no patience for autographs. An Escape Artist in a silk suit, sporting an oversized gold torus earring, brushed past him, causing Conrad to wince as the long scratches from his last battle made themselves known. He hadn’t had time to visit the hotel's resident Ink Artist, Marty, to refill his sigils, and without his tough skin, he felt every cut and bruise in their full force.
As he passed the front door of the hotel, he took a brief look outside and saw the grand fountains of the Canis Major Strip dancing with sparkling, karmastry-infused lights. The streets were packed with well-dressed people, and above them, neon posters for great Escape Artist shows lured visitors into various hotels and casinos, most of them continuously popping fireworks or infused with moving 3D images of magical performances.
None were more famous or well-known than the Haven Hideaway, home to the Ink Fighter Champions Club—a tournament where the best Ink Fighters in the world used their skills in tough, no-rules battles against each other. The allure of fame and fortune had drawn many Ink Fighters, including Conrad, to the hotel to fight for glory. For most, it seemed a better life than the anarchy of Pandemonium. Fame, fortune, and the Fortunan dream all lived at the HHH.
When he first arrived, he would have given anything to be where he was now—the champion! Lockjaw’s face was plastered on the main billboard above the building, featuring a moving image of him taking a blow to his jaw, unflinching, and smiling down at the red-carpeted sidewalks below. But when it first went up, the sight hadn’t given him the joy he’d expected. Shaking himself free from the hypnotic movement of the bright lights outside, he continued through the hotel and up to the penthouse, where Hayden Green oversaw the hotel's operations.
Like most things in Hayden’s hotel, the employee elevator, once powered by electric motors, now ran on the latest karma tech. It silently whisked him up from the ground floor, serenading him with a calming tune over hidden speakers. The elevator let him out onto the long hall of the top floor, which was dark, with no doors save the one leading to the penthouse at the very end. Along the walls were pictures of past champions and Hayden with celebrities and other special guests. His own picture was there too, smiling and caught in a friendly headlock by his friend, Hayden Green.
Conrad approached the door, and the bodyguard let him pass without a word. There were others like him, waiting in secret places, all loyal like dogs to the hotel’s owner. Conrad had been like them until recently. Gritting his teeth, he entered the lush apartment of the hotel’s owner.
Hayden Green was alone in his penthouse, which was mostly an office with a huge desk and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the strip, the lights below twinkling like stars. It was dark outside, but the hotel owner had various colored lights on, making it feel like a nightclub where he was the only guest.
“No, I don’t want twelve ink machines. I want the fourteen I ordered. If I have to come down there, I’ll break a finger for each machine I’m missing.” Hayden slammed the phone down onto the desk and looked up to see Conrad.
His frustrated expression instantly shifted to one of elation. The young man leapt from his desk, grabbing his silver cane—more a stylish accessory than a necessity. The cane was thin and rich-looking, topped with a ball encasing a realistic glass eye. Hayden, taller than Conrad by a good foot and a half, was always dressed in a suit, typically white or gray. His eyes were an unusually dark black, which he insisted were natural and not a result of bio karmastry, taking offense if anyone suggested otherwise. His hair, always hidden under a hat matching his suit, was short on top and long in the back, neatly combed and shiny as if freshly dipped in oil—which it probably was.
“Lockjaw! My favorite champ!. I heard you wanted to talk with me.” The hotel owner threw an arm over Conrad's shoulder and led him to a plush seat, offering him a variety of drinks, which the champion declined.
Hayden raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment, fixing a drink for himself instead, adding a handful of olives before sitting down casually across from Conrad. He removed a detachable fur lapel and tossed it aside.
“Ugh, I don’t think this new lapel is for me… What do you think?”
Conrad didn’t answer quickly enough, as Hayden quickly changed the subject.
“Did you like the new lights we put over the cage? Now everyone can see you beating your opponents even better.”
Conrad shuddered every time someone used his call sign outside of the ring; it made him feel like a dog, or worse, a weapon.
Hayden downed his drink in one swig and popped a few olives into his mouth, talking as he chewed. “I know what you’re going to say: you need more challenging opponents. I’ve got some good news—I’ve just got a flood of new Ink Fighters…” He trailed off, eyeing the quiet man across from him.
“Mr. Green, I think I’m done.” Conrad sighed, unable to look at Hayden any longer, focusing his gaze out of the large windows instead.
Hayden’s expression grew colder. He set his glass down a little forcefully and stood, leaning on his cane, the glass eyeball turned just right so that it seemed to be staring at the still-sitting Ink Fighter. The rich man's voice was friendly, not matching the coldness in his eyes. “Friend, what are you talking about? You’re killing it out there! The people love you. Are you saying you just need a break? I think that’s a good idea… go out, see the town a little bit. Maybe there’s a new show across the street—”
“No, I’m done. Done. I’ve been your champion for two years, and I’ve been thinking I want to start a school, maybe…”
Hayden slammed his cane into the ground, causing Conrad to jump and look back at him. “Look, kid, I like you. Everyone likes you. You have everything you could want here. You’re famous. Surely you don’t want to throw all that away.”
Conrad shook his head. “I’ve been fighting every day of my life since I came here. What I did today to that young kid—I broke his nose almost into his skull. I could have killed him. I can stay for a bit to help you find the next champion, but after that, I’m done.”
Hayden’s face didn’t change for a moment, then he started to laugh. “It’s not that easy, my friend.” Hayden leaned close, towering over the large fighter. “You see, you and I have a contract. I own you, your sigils, your brand. You owe me for all that, and your contract isn’t even close to its end date. As long as you’re my champion, you remain here.”
He grabbed Conrad's face, forcing him to look into his dark eyes.
“Aren’t you grateful to me for making you a star? You’re one of the most famous Ink Fighters in the world thanks to me.”
“I am, sir,” Conrad said after a long moment. Hayden let go of his face, wiping his hand on his shirt.
“Good, I’m glad we agree on this!” The lightheartedness returned to the hotel owner's voice, and he slammed his cane down hard twice on the hardwood floor.
The door to the penthouse opened, and two guards came in to escort Conrad out.
“You’ll like the next opponent I have for you. It’s something new!” Hayden waved him out, eyes dark but mouth smiling in the dance lights of the penthouse.
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Lockjaw had never faced an Ink Fighter like this before. He leapt away from the flames being shot at him, struggling to find an opportunity to get close to his opponent. The fighter, named “Meteor,” hung high above him, clinging to the cage with one arm while blasting down bolts of intense fire with the other. Lockjaw had dealt with projectile Ink Fighters before, but he had never encountered an elemental Ink Fighter. The heat and ferocity of the flames were quickly wearing him down. Meteor was boxing him in, forcing his back against the cage wall.
“Argh!” Lockjaw cried out as a searing blast grazed his shoulder. Behind him, the karmastry-infused cage, designed to contain their sigils, sizzled with the smoke of the fire.
Even with his hardened skin, the impact felt like a sledgehammer blow, and the burn was agonizing. Just as another blast was about to hit him, the halftime bell rang. Meteor jumped down, catching himself before hitting the ground with a burst of intense fire. He hadn’t even broken a sweat and taunted across the ring.
“You better give up now, champion! It’s my turn at the title!”
Meteor used the break to hype up the crowd, raising his arms and cupping a hand to his ear, encouraging his fans to cheer louder. The crowd went wild for the young Ink Fighter, captivated by his theatrics and flashy fire moves.
Lockjaw’s coach entered the cage with a stool, some water, and an Ink syringe. Lockjaw took the syringe first, injecting it into the sigils on his arms. He felt instantly better as his muscles and bones tightened again. His coach applied a temporary bandage to his burning shoulder and spoke quietly in his ear.
“What’s going on, Lock? You’ve gotta get more aggressive! You’re so used to taking hits; you need to give some back!”
“He’s way above me!” Lockjaw sighed, squirting cool water into his mouth. “His attacks are so fast. I don’t understand how he has that kinda energy to use his sigils so much.”
His coach clapped him hard on the back, pointing at Meteor. “Go and get him! Be aggressive, and you’ll shake him. Climb the damn cage and rip him down.”
The refs called for the second half to start, and the coaches left the cage, closing and locking it behind them. Meteor bounced on his feet, stretching with a crazed look in his eyes. Gritting his teeth, Lockjaw activated all his sigils, grunting with the effort it took to energize them and focus on so many parts of his body at once.
The bell rang, and Lockjaw let out a cry, charging straight at his opponent. Meteor didn’t flinch, locking his arms forward and unleashing a terrifying blast of energy right at Lockjaw’s face.
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Hayden came to visit him in the hotel’s dedicated Ink Fighter med ward several days later, half his face covered in thick white bandages as he groggily looked up at the hotel owner.
“Well, you got your wish—former champ.” Hayden didn’t sit; instead, he leaned on his silver cane near the door.
Conrad had heard the celebrations for the new champion outside his room for days, but he’d been in too much pain to feel any emotions about it.
“Does this mean…?” Conrad croaked. “Am I… done?”
Hayden smiled, but his eyes were hollow.
“You said you wanted to teach, right?” he started, not answering Conrad’s question directly. “Well, you can teach here. I’ve got a lot of up-and-comers, and I’m thinking of starting a junior tournament to get some fresh, young blood—like Meteor.”
Conrad couldn’t speak, the pain too overwhelming.
“Teach my Ink Fighters how to fight in my cage, and… maybe… we can chat about your contract someday.”
He left without another word, closing the door with a sharp click behind him. Conrad lay still and injured in the depths of Hayden Green’s hotel.
Comments
O.R.A Productions
Love the design!
Dante Sabertooth
Those punches must hurt like hell, but it feels like bringing a knife to a gunfight when you're against freaking fire blasts
Mark Zschiegner
Great work so far Ella. I cant wait to see what else comes next
