Commissioned Story: Fang, Ch. 1 (Patreon)

*A commission for Spartan514*

Left.  Obvious right.  Spinning uppercut to avoid immediate retaliatory haymaker.  Expect flurry of retort, target favors left side.  Take three hits, target believes advantage then counter high, press close, establish grapple underneath crux of the left arm, push off balance with elbow to the coccyx.  One two combo, targeting lower stomach, then throat jab.  Stomp kick to back of exposed calf as diaphragm hemorrhages and breathing is restricted.  Target stunned.  Palm strike to bottom of jaw, use connection to grapple.  Continue forward momentum, push target off balance and pin to the mat.  Transition to full mount, knee in sternum to anchor.  Immediate blind left, pin.  Belly is exposed, grab throat and apply pressure.  Takedown complete.

Rip.  Claw into them.  Establish true dominance.  Pull the skull to the side, expose the windpipe.  Teeth sink in, fresh blood, crush the jugular.  Kill.  Easy kill.  Blood paints the snow.

A sharp sound tore Nemea from her fathomless descent.  Like surfacing from total submersion, the world of before fell away, trickling down and away from her active consciousness.  The black-pine forest of snow and ashes was no more.  The haze and gloom of the dimly lit training hall again returned to her sharp vision, every detail as bright and clear as if illuminated by a spotlight.  Before her, Wake and Wick continued to spar in the center of the heavily padded ring.

Cheers and roars of approval again echoed around her, rather than the muted, faraway barks of gunfire and the howls of battle amongst the twisted, blackened forest.  Both fighters' managers shouted encouragement, advice, and abrasive jabs at both their trainee as well as one another, hanging onto the rope-wrapped steel chains that separated the pit from the the viewing area.  The smell of latent, non-dangerous Aggression filled the room from everyone present as emotions and confrontation raged.

A vicious uppercut from Wake sent Wick stumbling back onto his scaly, armored tail before he recovered his feet.  The Serpent hissed, weaving back and forth with his hood attempting to raise.  Gleaming eyes tracked the Jaguar in front of him, wrapped fists attempting to do much the same.  He was flagging badly and he wasn't using his tail like Nemea and Triape his trainer kept telling him to do.

Wake for his part advanced solidly, a block of shirtless, solid, rosette-covered fur and muscle.  He juked Wick out with a two-step lunge forward and when the Serpent lashed out only to meet air, Wake instead slid forwards on one calf and grabbed around his opponent's waist, locking his muscular arms around the lighter Male and rising back up.  Deadlifted into the air, Wick let out a hiss of surprise before Wake sprinted at the nearest corner, catapulted off of the steel beam and propelling both into the air temporarily.  An elbow replaced his grapple around the Serpent's midsection and all of both Anthros' weights came crashing down onto the bouncing surface of the mat their footpaws had briefly left.

All around the fighting ring came a chorus of groans, hisses, and yells of excitement.  Something blue and plastic skittered across the mat as the impact rattled the metal rafters up above.  The takedown had been showy but otherwise tactically brilliant.  Larger and stronger, Wake excelled in the slams and suplexes.  But Wick was the better grappler.  Even with the wind knocked out of him, the Cobra moved with lightning speed.  Long arms, legs, and then tail wound around Wake like self-tightening chains and then they were locked together.

"Here we go!" Triape the Okapi shouted in joy, bouncing on her hooves and clenching her fists hard.  "Get him in the hold, Wick!  Get him in the hold!"

Wake's trainer, Artif the Badger also shouted encouragement to his embattled fighter.  "Don't let his tail get around your neck boyo!" came his thick accent over the roars of the crowd and furious grunting of the two embattled males.  "Check him!  Check him!"

Around the ring the fighters rolled.  Sure enough, Wake was too distracted trying to keep the tail from getting around his jugular, furious scrabbling with his thick paws for purchase on the slick scales to also keep account of the expert locks Wick was also capable of with his limbs.  They transitioned to an octagon hold in record time, Wick with both of Wake's arms pinned behind the small of his back using his flexible legs while his hands locked in around the Jaguar's throat.  He wouldn't be able to choke the thick-bodied Feline out given the bulk of protective muscle around the area, but there was little Wake could do in the situation.

Nemea meanwhile slipped back into mental calculations, putting herself in Wake's fue.  How would she get out of this... or more accurately how had she gotten out of similar before in the past?  As before, the world of furious sound fell away, replaced by the steady throbbing of her heart and cold Aggression churning through her veins, always tightly controlled.  Her muscles tensed at the mental exercise, perfectly able to simulate the strain.

Extremities locked in place, weight working against me.  Firm hold but wavering, joints straining from pressure of holding onto larger target.  Relax completely, use surprise of lack of resistance to suddenly twist at waist and roll in opposite direction.  Slam grappler against post.  Hold persists, tuck jaw down as paws loosen and...

Bite.  Sink fangs in.  Scales will not protect.

No.  No biting.  No fangs.  Mouth guard in effect for exactly that reason to prevent biting.  Flash of white teeth.  Something plastic on the floor of the ring.  Out of place.

The smell.

Nemea jerked out of her tactical brain and blew two short blasts on her bone whistle that hung around her throat by a braided cord.  The sound echoed around the ring, louder than any voice and cutting through even the fiercest of concentrations and excitements.  Even as the onlookers jerked in surprise and backed away from the ring in practiced motions, Nemea was already clearing the edge of it and bounding down into the recessed pit in a flash of fur.

Her heavy paw caught Wick underneath the scaly chin just as he lunged, stopping him barely a hairs breadth from sinking his extended fangs into the bulging vein at Wake's throat.  The scales were slippery under her pads but her lock tightened with ease, thanks in part to the over-sized dimensions of her palm and furry digits.  Her other paw abruptly shucked the Serpent from his grapple, as easily as the skin from an ear of corn.  Wake collapsed onto the mat on his side, gasping for air even as she performed the exact same octagon hold on Wick.

It all happened in the space of a second or more, if that.  The watchers and managers all blinked in surprise as now the gym owner was in the midst of the brawl, kicking Wake away from her entanglement with Wick.  The Serpent hissed and thrashed but there was no escaping.  Nemea outweighed Wake as much as the Jaguar did Wick, and against that drastic of a difference in height, power, and bulk, this really was no contest.  Even antagonized and elevated by Aggro as he was, there was no fighting an Alpha.

"Calm.  Down," she snarled softly into the young trainee's ear hole, tightening her grasp minutely as Wick snarled and writhed all the more desperately.  "Fury down.  Fury.  Down."  Her stony, dispassionate voice quickly silenced the entire room.  All save for Wick immediately let their fur, scales, and feathers settle back to normalcy as she continued to growl gentle instructions into the fighter's ear.  "You're sailing too high and the wave's breaking," she ordered him.  "Fury down."

For a moment or so longer, Wick continued to resist.  Then the musk of his Aggression began to fade and he sagged in her arms, panting for breath.  All was quiet in the gym for those spare seconds.  His muscles trembled like branches in a storm and he finally went slack in her grasp, releasing all control.

"You good?" she demanded, voice naturally harsh but gentle compared to her usual authoritative bark.

"Y-yeah..." gasped Wick in a strangled voice, barely above a whisper.  He nodded to make sure she and everyone else understood.  As she watched carefully, his fangs curled back into their protective sheaths inside his jaw.  Only when she saw that did Nemea release the grapple and climb back up to her paws, hauling Wick upright with her as easily as lifting a bag of groceries.

Nemea cast a harsh, flat eye around the room, falling on the still panting Wake who too had also just then gotten to his feet.  She let go of Wick fully and reached over, grabbing his fuzzy chin and turning his skull from side to side easily, inspecting his fur for any injuries or signs of puncture wounds.  Pleased at finding none, she let go and returned to helping Wick stumble out of his side of the ring.

A buzzer sounded and even as she assisted the Serpent Anthro out, Nemea observed the automated chain-ropes being pulled wide to expand the opening out of the pit.  Triape reached in with her long, white and brown furred arms and lifted the fighter from her, murmuring softly.  "Easy, Wicket," Nemea heard the Okapi muttering to the Snake.  "You're okay."

"Sorry..." Wick slurred out, pronouncing his s's with a longer drawl as most Serpents did, thanks to a natural lisp.  It wasn't directed to Triape though, as he looked back at Wake.  "Sorry, Wakefield."

The Jaguar belted out his Chaddest of fanged grins, a cocky smirk and twinkling of his eyes that made many sigh in relief.  "Hey bro, no sweat."

"Yes, sweat," Nemea barked out, startling everyone once again.  She leaned down and scooped up the mouth guard on the ground, palming it harshly.  She held it up for everyone to see.  Fighters and onlookers alike nodded somberly.  "Six seconds."  No one dared interrupt her even as she paused to make sure.  "Six seconds is all it takes for Fury to rise to killing levels.  Even Coldbloods."  She whirled on her paw to look Wicket in the eyes directly.  He cowered visibly before her scarred visage.  "You never should have gone for a hold like that without a mouth guard."

"Yes, Ms. Spartos," Parl Wicket replied at once, snapping to attention even as exhausted as he was.

Whirling around on Wake then, Nemea fixed her glittering eyes upon him as well, bright orbs narrowing behind the thick dark markings around them.  "And you, Short-Muzzle," she snapped out.  "Recognize Aggro when you smell it.  There's no glory in taking a Fury-Bite to the windpipe, and I can't afford the legal fees."

Baen Wakefield stiffened slightly as people tittered around him.  His ears folded back and his thick fur performed several small trembling motions as he grumbled to himself at the teasing moniker she always blasted him with.  "I'd tank it," he replied in a macho grunt.

Heavy sighs and groans resounded around them all as Nemea arched an eyebrow down at him.  "Ophiod venom can kill a Loxon," she snapped at him, unamused.  "Panthra like you would drop dead before I had time to count your existing brain cells."  She lifted one paw up, counting on her clawed fingers briefly.  "One, two, thr- aww damn.  I almost had the full count."  She glared at Wakefield as everyone chuckled again.  "Besides, you couldn't tank a mosquito bite."  Everyone gave appropriate whoops and "ooooh's" at that as she crossed her massive arms over her broad chest down at him, straining her leather jacket and undershirt.

Glaring up at her, Wake stomped toward her gruffly.  "I'll tank you," he grunted.  More groans resounded and multiple calls for the Jaguar to just get out of the ring resounded.  He waved them all away.  "Nah, nah!" he protested.  "Give me your best shot, Coldfang!"  He adopted a boxing pose, swaying expertly on his wrapped footpaws from side to side in front of her.  "I wanna see the legend in action."

Huffing out a breath, Nemea stared down at the young Male, barely twenty years old, as he jabbed his fists around and past her by bare inches.  Small air currents disturbed her thick, tawny fur.  His form wasn't complete shit at least, but this macho-headed confidence of his was going to get him killed someday.  "Legend," she huffed then, uncrossing her burly arms, nearly thick around as the Jaguar's legs.  Her paws fell to her sides and she looked up at the ceiling.  "It ain't a legend, kid, to see and do the things I've done."

A hush fell across the ring.  Multiple onlookers all cast wary eyes across to the far wall from the ring, where hung a simple small bronze plaque and a full length portrait frame of a squad of ten soldiers in full, black combat gear posing in front of a destroyed tank.  The area around both wall-hangings remained completely barren of all other furnishings for at least ten feet.

The winged-star medal on the plaque was a sight every single applicant and regular to Coldfang Gym was well used to seeing, as well as the triple-bars and crescent slash across them of black metal hanging directly below it, as well as emblazoned on the armored jackets of those in the picture.  Every Anthro who served at least their compulsory two-year military service knew what those meant.  Whether by rank, creed, or assignment, none but the worthiest could carry the stripes of the Black Legion.

Wake paused as she relaxed fully in front of him, eyes briefly going wide.  Even his macho attitude wasn't stone-thick enough to ignore what everyone else was obviously observing.  "I'm...I'm sorry," he grunted immediately, dropping his guard.  "I didn't mean to~"

Her always-wrapped fist caught the Jaguar full in the chest, knocking him back off his feet and into the air briefly before he crashed down flat on his back.

"What have I told you?!" came her usual barking roar as the Smilodon Anthro stomped over and grabbed a hold of Wakefield.  With both, trash-can-lid sized paws locked into his fur, she partially lifted him, even as he remained half-stunned on the mat.  "You never drop your guard, Short-Muzzle!"

What followed made everyone give rueful groans and wincing chuckles even as Baen's girly screams of panic echoed around the gym.  Onlookers flinched and jerked, pained smiles on their muzzles as she made her point with the cocky young fighter, manipulating him into hold after hold, overpowering him with utmost ease.  Every time she released him after establishing the finer points of each takedown, she also made sure to give factual and completely calm-voiced explanations of them for both her protege and those observing.  Occasionally, someone would ask for pointers on a specific move and she would use poor Wakefield as a live demonstration, or otherwise allowing him up and then blocking his next blow or maneuver with the same disarming motion.  She threw him all around the ring to the cheers, jests, and groans of the audience.

Barely five minutes later, Nemea puffed out a snort from her thick, sabretoothed muzzle, using the back of a prone and wheezing Wake as a chair.  "You get all that?" she asked, barely out of breath at all.  Everyone clapped and gave small cheers.  She reached down then and tapped the  short-shorn head of the Jaguar beneath her.  "How about you, Tanker?" she teased.

Baen gave a high-pitched, "Uh huh," before she finally lifted off of him, making him grunt, the tremendous muscular weight of her bulk no longer pinning him to the sweat soaked mat.

The Jaguar's trainer bustled into the ring then, chortling even as he helped his fighter back up to his wobbling feet.  Artif flashed Nemea an approving grin, silver hairs lining his black and white striped muzzle.  "Ya taught the boyo a fine lesson, 'Mea me dear," he stated firmly.  She clicked her jaw once in acknowledgement and watched the Badger half-drag the whining Wakefield out.

Casting one gleaming, emerald eye around the assembled gym-goers, Nemea snorted again at the rather avid and passionate gazes that she was met with by everyone else still watching.  Their eyes were nothing but respectful, not even one daring to look at the Alpha Smilodon as anything less than the hard-assed fighting instructor that she was.  Even so, she grumbled on the inside at such avid hero-worship nearly streaming from her employees and patrons.

"All right, enough gawking," she mock-snarled at them all.  "Unless someone else wants to get in the ring with me, all of you back to training.  I'm running a gym, not a health spa."

Everyone gave laughing whoops and streamed off to various areas around the establishment at her command.  Soon the room was filled with the thuds of punching bags, whirring machines, grunts of exertion from lifters, and finally the muted tones of some heavy metal beginning to blaze once again from the loudspeakers set into the high corners of the gym roof.  Pleased to see everyone happy to get back to work after the training bout, Nemea exited the ring and stomped back across the concrete floor to her office.

Climbing a set of reinforced stairs, she opened the steel door and entered the cramped little 12x16 room where her computer desk, filing cabinets, and personal effects were all arrayed neatly.  The walls were bare except for a massive whiteboard detailing who was on shift as trainers that week, as well as, much often to the shock of any newbies who she had to speak to personally, the massive full-length pin-up poster hanging right behind her workspace.

Casting a critical gaze on it as she sat down in her swiveling chair, she frowned heavily as she looked at the at least 10-year-old version of herself on the faded and slightly tattered edged poster.  Posing against a glorious sunset over the ocean, it depicted a much less scarred and more curvaceously proportioned Nemea, clad in a straining two-piece bikini.  Her eyes traveled up and down the details of who she once had been.

18 year old Nemea Spartos was not the hulking, muscle-bound and hollow-eyed wreck of modern day.  The three savage scars on her cheek, trailing all the way up past her left eye weren't there, nor was her right ear notched and missing a good fourth of itself.  She had inked tattoos in her gorgeous fur that had long since faded, swirling tribal designs that complimented the thick, wheat-tan color of her fur and natural, slightly darker stripes of her pelt.  Her belly, undersides of her paws, and throat were still the same fluffy, contrasting white, voluptuous frame straining and stretching the tight bathing suit to its utter limits as she posed sexily for the camera, not a care in the world.

It was like looking into a fun-house mirror almost, she sometimes liked to think, gazing at such drastic and stark differences from her current appearance and bearing.  She kept that poster up to remind herself how much things could change, to remember a time before all the darkness that she still had the innocence to smile like that.  Plus it let everyone who looked at it know that they could look all they wanted, but anything else was dangerous.  Also it made for a hilarious conversation starter, watching newbies stumble over themselves meeting her iron-hard gaze while trying not to stare at the younger, more beautiful version of her.

A touch vain of her, perhaps, but that was just part of the Alpha breed.  Even if she no longer considered herself beautiful, once lithe and curvaceous form now hulking and marred from her tufted ear to stubby tail in scars both inside and out, it was impossible to fully shake the knowledge of how other Breeds would look at her.  Whether they looked at her as woman or warrior, however, it mattered little to her.  She had a business to run now, and it didn't pay to dwell on the past unnecessarily.  Besides, doing so only reminded her of the things she no longer wanted to remember.  She didn't need the old squad photo in here to remember each of her fellow Legionairre faces.

Shaking herself out of reverie, Nemea turned to look at her computer screen, squashing herself down into her chair more and tapping at the comically undersized keyboard with her massive paws.  With surprising speed, she logged into her website and signed in as admin to check on rosters and costs.  Everything was the way it was supposed to be, which wasn't an easy achievement.

Pleased to see everything was in order, or as pleased as she ever allowed herself to be, Nemea logged off and exited her office to lean on the heavy steel railing of the platform that overlooked the gym floor.  Looking across at one of the exterior, plate-glass windows on the wall, she could see the outline of distant railroad crossings, stationary train cars, and beyond to the abandoned warehouse district outside.   Her gym was but one of a number of desolate buildings, although most assuredly the nicest one around anymore after she had bought it out and repurposed the rusted old defunct factory into something of good for the lower income ward of the city.

Her gleaming eyes swept the floor of her facility, ever alert for scuffles, outbreaks of Aggression, or those of her errant flock in need of direction.  That was when she observed one such discrepancy from the usual bustle and hustle of burly Anthro bodies furiously concentrating on bettering themselves through physical exertion.  Sharp impacts of gloved fists smacked less than solidly into a punching bag, the timing of each punch horribly discordant to the steady drum of the others of its kind.   Such minute detail was as obvious to her as the difference between a piece of music being played out of cadence to the surrounding orchestra.

Focusing her attention on the source of such sound, she peered through the crowd until finally they parted momentarily once again.   A bright head of out-of-place copper-red hair shone through for a second, catching the dim lights from overhead like burnished metal before disappearing into the mix once again.  No Anthro had a pelt like that, at least none she had ever met.  There was no denying that was where the sounds were coming from, and as she concentrated her attention fully, she finally spotted exactly what she was looking for.

A Human furiously swatted and flailed at the barely swaying sandbag hanging in front of him.  Bright red hair bobbed and waved around him, hanging haphazardly around his freckle-strewn face rather than being tied back in a tail or bun.  Blue eyes gazed flintily at the target of his ire, oversized boxing gloves connecting weakly each time he threw a punch.  Stance, unbalanced; style, nonexistent; breathing, erratic.  She took all the cursory details in in a millisecond but it was his gaze that drew her attention the most.

The Human male, looking barely a few years younger than her, was lost.  His eyes were vacant, blank, and hardened into severe pools of dark, ocean blue.  His lips were tight from frustration as he threw yet another weak straight which barely made the punching bag move at all.  His expression was that of intense, ever-consuming rage that had burned so hot and for so long that it warped what otherwise was a rather handsome face.  This, coupled with the lack of efficiency in channeling that same rage, only seemed to make it worse for him the longer Nemea observed.

Shaking her head, the Anthro woman palmed her personal walky-talky which hung from her waist by a nylon loop.  Pressing the button down, she heard the feedback as the channel opened before she grated out, "Kilboros," then released the talk function to wait.

It didn't take long, several seconds of hissing feedback over the channel before another voice clicked on.  "Yeah, boss," asked the person on the other end of the line.

"Front section, boxing area," Nemea ordered simply.  "We got someone tearing a bag up but don't know a jab from a hook.  Gonna hurt himself at this rate."

"One moment, verifying," came the short military response, and Nemea couldn't help but grin just a bit; Kilboros was definitely one of her favorite employees.  Her working trainers were all ex-military like her, veterans that needed both a physical channel and steady form of income.  More than anyone here, they respected her efficiency and professionalism alongside her impressive but often non-discussed service record, as well as the necessity for such a place, not only for the impoverished and less fortunate clientele of the Lower Wards, but also the same need of the owner as well.  "Kilboros here," announced the voice barely a second or so later.

"Go ahead."

"Spotted him," they announced.  "I'm seeing what you mean, boss.  Want me to get a trainer?"

"Just check on him."  Nemea cast again a look down at the distant Human who kept hammering away at the bag, seemingly unaware of his onlookers.

"Ten four," was all they replied with.

Setting her walky back at her waist, Nemea settled back to watch as, weaving their way through the crowd, the easy to spot form of Kilboros, a muscular Lynx-Snow Leopard Hybrid of ambiguous gender in fur-tight workout shorts and sleeveless muscle-shirt.  They approached the lone Human, easily the only one of his kind present in the gym.

They succeeded after a minute or so of trying to get the Human's attention, obviously offering to hold the bag for him.  Even from here, the Alpha could see the intense, hardened expression on the Human's face abruptly fall completely away and he actually smiled, if sheepishly, up at Kilboros as they chatted.  Whatever they said was too low for even her sharp ears to pick up, and  a rush of activity and loud laughing off to one side, near the drink stations, distracted Nemea momentarily.   By the time she glanced back, she couldn't see either of the two through the crowd anymore.

A hiss at her side came then and she again palmed the radio in her huge paw.  "Go ahead," she growled.

"Boss, Kilboros," retorted the flat drawl of the other Feline.  "Offered a paw to him but he didn't seem interested.  Smiled though and thanked me.  Said he was about done anyway, took off his gloves, hung em up, and left.  Didn't seem confrontational or anything."

"He say anything else?"

"No, boss."

Pondering this, Nemea finally just shrugged.  "Copy, Kilboros," she growled out in return.  "Appreciate it."

"Copy," was all they replied with, as dispassionate and curt as ever.

Huffing out a breath, Nemea decided not to ruminate on a lone Human.  There were other things to worry about.  Even as she descended the stairs to break up a friendly if intense argument among some a burly Cervine and a gangly Doberman over sports teams, however, Nemea found herself unable to stop thinking about the intense expression on that freckly face.  Such grimaces of anger and frustration did not belong on such fair features as his, which yes she had to admit were rather comely to even a distant heart as hers.

He had looked, as she observed before, lost and lashing out, literally, in an attempt to gain some kind of control.  She knew the feeling very well, saw it often on the hardest and most down on their luck patrons of the gym here, who used this place of hers to vent and get away from their troubles for the time being.  Channeling such negativity into physical exertion had always been her catharsis, and seemingly that mindset extended to others as well.  But it had to come from the bias that it was meant to destress one's soul to do so, to channel rage, anger, sorrow, regret, and potentially grief so they could be let go.

That Human had looked as if he was drowning in whatever black mood he was carrying with him.  She only hoped that it wouldn't swallow him up completely and, if a place like this couldn't help him, that he had other options.  Eyes like that didn't deserve such darkness.  Eyes so similar to her own, so long ago.

Nemea Spartos cast one last glance back at the bag he had been using.  Crossing to it, she rubbed one big paw down its tape-wrapped canvas siding, feeling the several thousand pounds of sand inside and the gentle rasp of its polished chain.  She adopted a stance, coiling one fist back, and thought back on how the Human had positioned himself and moved, throwing one hard punch as she did so.  She saw and felt his rage, desperation, frustration, and earnest desire for change as her own.  It was an old, familiar feeling.

The impact of her wrapped fist sent the sandbag jerking back as if hit by a truck, jostling the chain mightily.  She caught the bag easily, steadying it back to its previous position and then rubbed her palm pads across where she had struck.  She felt that burning ire imprinted on the material as if branded there by a hot iron, smelled it as if a lingering scent in the air.  His, and hers too.

Her eyes tracked out of the double bay doors that served as the entrance to the Coldfang Gym for a moment before she sighed and looked away.  Perhaps she was reading too much into it, but try as she might, it was impossible to look away from someone so obviously suffering.  Even so, she knew she didn't need or have the time to ponder things beyond her control.  Her harsh, darkly-outlined eyes fell upon a few patrons who stared at her curiously.

Lifting the corner of her muzzle and baring more of one of her long, curving upper fangs, she gave them all a small, mock-annoyed growl.  "You all wanna waste your membership standing around and staring?" she demanded.  Immediately all eyes flicked away and the small crowd hurriedly dispersed, getting back to whatever training they were busy with.  She tramped back up the stairs to her office and set to answering emails, putting the Human out of her mind for now.

Control what you can, and surrender what you cannot, her old Sergeant had used to say.  Wise advice, she thought.