"You know he'd stop doing this to you if you didn't refuse to be drugged."

I sit in one of the bedrooms of the Edenite's house. I bury my face in my hands so Dahlia cannot see me. It's not that I'm crying or anything, it's just that getting your whiskers pulled out will leave a tear in your eye, no matter how hard you brace for it.
"I have to refuse," I mumble through my hands, "that stuff doesn't agree with me, it makes me fight worse. No matter how much they pump into me."
"And losing a fight is worse than this?" Dahlia's voice moves to my left and the ears atop my head swivel to keep up. She sits on one of the squeaky old mattresses in the room.
I try to casually hide the fact I was rubbing my eyes and let my hands fall into my lap, "yeah. You Baldies go nuts for Bell, I fight better without. Even if Stephen is convinced otherwise. This pain doesn't last as long as losing a fight and having your reputation ruined."
I regret calling her a Baldy, Dahlia only calls me a Fluff so the rest of the gang doesn't think she's getting friendly with me, being friends with a Katemphy is bad news in these parts. And she isn't really, she's the sort of medic of the group, so it's her job to be empathetic.

Dahlia's the closest thing I have to a friend, though.

She grunts, my half-hearted insult reminds her she's being too nice, and flips her hair, dreaded from ages of neglect. "C'mon Blaine, I'll try and patch that up somehow. It's your team's turn to make rounds. And I'm pretty sure being injured and alone at night isn't too smart."

-----

"How does it feel?" She closes the rusted tool box we keep medical supplies in.
"What? The antiseptic?" Which is really burning my face. I wonder if it was even any good anymore.
She almost looks me in the eye, guilty for asking, "No, the..." All she does is brush the area just above her lips, where I used to have whiskers.
The best smile I could give her at the moment was a crooked one that only made it as far as the corner of my mouth. "Like gettin' kicked in the groin. Leaves you all dizzy and sick. 'Cept it takes longer to wear off."
She winces.
I figure I'm not the only one that wants to change the subject, "I heard Saturday it's your turn in The Ring. First time up against the Locusts?"
Dahlia nods, the Locusts are a tough gang. They can be even more cruel than us. And that's saying something. She turns around to wash her hands in the not exactly clean water we get here in Boulder. If you ask me I think they're putting something in it. "I'm going to use Bell." She adds. I expected that, but it doesn't make me any less fearful for her.
"At least have some strategy before you rush in." I heave myself out of the only chair in the room and instantly regret it. I slouch back in the chair.
Dahlia takes in a sharp breath, "get high, and pray I win. Sounds like a good enough plan to me." She looks over her shoulder at me, I can tell from her expression the disapproval shows clearly on my face.
"No, no, no." I take my time standing up. I walk the distance between the rickety chair and the counter with some difficulty. I lean against it and give her a thoughtful look.
"What?" Dahlia raises an eyebrow.
"You're fast, I've seen you runnin' 'round here after that one shootout, fixing people up."
"So?"
"So, I don't think you should take the offensive in your fight."
"As if that's possible on Bell."
"It's not as difficult as it seems. Look, judging by the last few fights, you're stuck with the last male fighter of the Locusts; that one Ronny guy."
"Oh yeah, Big Ronny." She gives me a glum and hopeless look, I'm guessing her next question is what should her tombstone read.
"Big and slow." I hope this is helping -- it kind of pains me to see her upset, "he's one to pack a punch, but he slows down fast. Just let the Bell keep you on your toes, and when he looks about done with his fit, let it loose."
Dahlia mirrors my look, contemplating the likelihood that that strategy might very well save her skin.
"'Ey! You got a post to attend to, Fluff." One of the other scraggly men of the gang yells and makes us both jump, I hope he hasn't been standing in the doorway this whole time.
"Alright, alright. Lemme get my coat. You boys made sure I couldn't rely on my fur."
The gangster scoffs. I try and give Dahlia a reassuring look on my way out.

-----

Fight night.

The hundred-degree April day is finally cooling, only a few more hours till we'll be freezing. The air is high and dry at The Ring, there's going to be plenty of blood, no doubt.

It seems about as normal there as it usually is; cheering and cursing and chanting from the opposite gangs. Occasionally two men from separate groups will bicker, but most of the time they are glued to the fight.

And there was Big Ronny, the ring of gangsters parts for him.

"Big Ronny" is more of an understatement, he's at least six feet tall -- considering the fact he towers over me -- and looks like he might be taking more than Bell to prepare for fights. He's got messy, unkempt hair and a beard redder than Dahlia's dreadlocks.
Speaking of Dahlia, our side of the circle makes way for her. She's rubbing her neck where they stuck her with the Bell, it takes a little longer for Bell to kick in for girls, but once it does you'd expect them to foam at the mouth if you saw how bad they get.
Someone lets off an air horn and the fight begins, and honestly, I am not hoping she wins. I'm hoping she gets out alive.
They circle around each other like some tango of death. Big Ronny' s nearly twice the size of her and every so often I lose sight of her behind him. Ronny makes the first move and Dahlia sees it coming. Again and again he reaches out for a hit, she dodges, throws a phoney punch to keep him guessing, then dodges again. At least she is taking my advice on not actually attacking him yet.
Time is passing so slow for me while I watch, I take the time to see what else new Ronny might have up his sleeve. No matter whether I'm in The Ring or not, I'm analyzing everything. It's the only reason the leader of Touch of Eden keeps me here. He believes I was only built to fight, learn to fight, then build myself up better to fight.
Ronny is slowing down, and I can tell Dahlia's Bell is flowing, she's all antsy and shaky.
Just like I had told her, she let it loose.
She whacks him in the jaw so hard that I can hear it cracking through the roar of the crowd. Her hand definitely took a number on that one, but Bell numbs the heck out of you so I'm pretty sure she doesn't care.
After that it just becomes some sort of demented David and Goliath reenactment. He staggers backwards, and she flat out tackles him. Landing punch after punch until practically every inch of his face is livid and bruised, she's grabbing his head by his hair and slamming it into the asphalt.
It takes some will to keep my fur from standing on end. I've never seen Dahlia like this, maybe they gave her an overdosage because they thought her chance of winning was as slim as I thought they were.

This is just scary.

It takes four guys to peel Dahlia off of Big Ronny, who doesn't really look too big or Ronny-like after that. She's snarling and growling like an animal -- that's normal, I always thought that was because the recipe calls for some weird antibiotic meant for pets to make Bell. But she's trying to bite people, snapping her teeth at anyone who gets part of them too close to her mouth.
I can't watch anymore, it is almost nauseating. I always thought this was wrong. I hate fighting. But this... these people are willing to do anything for a quick buck and a bed to sleep in. Don't get me wrong, so am I. I've done some pretty nasty stuff just to keep myself out of the same hands that ruined my brother. But I have my limits.
Seeing someone I care about being violated and having the chance to help, but doing nothing? That's where I draw the line. I don't even take a step towards The Ring before a cold hand grips my shoulder.
"Hey, Blaine. I need to talk to you, bud."
I give in and my fur stands up, like Stephen's touch shocked me. He's calling me by my name.

This can't be good.

-----

The radio is more static than programs, but it is more than willing to cooperate with Stephen so I can hear.

"The VEA has reported that there has been a great unsettlement between the public and the Katemphy race in northeastern Maine. The numerous reported crimes include robbery, breaking and entering, harassment, vandalism, kidnapping, and possibly manslaughter. This uproar has appeared to spread across the country, causing a chain of Katemphy criminal acts. As of yesterday they have been reported in New York, Florida, Kansas, Colorado, and Texas. Along with nearly fifty crimes in other states that are still being investigated. Stay tuned for more updates."
Stephen turns off the radio. "They've been going on about that all day." He almost appears amused.
I hate Stephen with every fiber in my body. But he has that sort of aura of authority, as leader of our gang. And I feel that I shouldn't even think of hurting him. I wouldn't lay a finger on him after all he has done for me, and done to me.
That's why he has gotten his way with me for almost eight years.
We are sitting at the icy metal table in his room, he reaches underneath for the filing cabinet. "Care for a drink, Blaine?"
"I don't drink, sir."
He laughs coolly, "I know you're only nineteen, but is there any law anyone follows in Boulder?"
"I..."
"Drink, Blaine." Stephen's voice suddenly got demanding. He slides a glass to my side of the table.
I flinch and snatch the glass up, pouring it down my gullet. Whatever this is, it's strong. It burns the whole way down my throat and I cringe. Stephen laughs, apparently finding my inability to hold my liquor funny.
"Why did you need me to hear that, exactly... sir?" I cough out.
"I just found it interesting. I guess you could call it good timing is all. I've noticed you are studying how our gang fights more than the opposition. A lot of us have noticed. And you are refusing Bell before fights. What are you planning?"
"Nothing." I reply rather quickly, so I sound less like I'm offended and more like I'm in denial.
He gives me a questioning look. "So, you haven't heard about all this ruckus?"
"No sir, you have the only radio in the house." I'm feeling queasy again, either because I feel I have another punishment coming along already or because that glass of mystery booze isn't agreeing with me.
Stephen doesn't seem very convinced and he gets right to the point, "are you still loyal to Touch of Eden?"

I took one second too long to nod.

He gives me a look of great disapproval, and he searches through his cabinet again. "Have another drink, Blaine."
I do so reluctantly, I never take my eye off of him though. It's when he pulls a gun out that I drop my glass and scoot my chair halfway across the room.
"Relax, you know I wouldn't hurt you without a reason." He places the gun on the table, then a single round next to it. "This is for you."
I stand up slowly, "me?"
"Yes, you."
I edge over to the table.
"You do not seem satisfied here. I knew this day would come, so I have a proposal for you." Stephen pours himself another glass of liquor. And downs it like it were water, "I'm giving you three choices." He edges the gun closer to me with a finger, and I pick it up like a live bomb.
"One; stay with us, keep a roof over your head and food in your belly. Two;" he sets his glass down and spreads out his arms as if offering me a hug, "kill me."
I look at him in bewilderment.
"Three; use that bullet for a good game of Roulette." He relaxes back in his chair. "Your choice."
I stare down at my hands. The gun in one, the lone bullet in the other, the only things in focus while my buzz fogs the whole room around me.
Eight years, it took me eight years. It took him eight years. It took me eight years to realize that this was wrong, that I didn't want to do this. That this wasn't really my home. I look up at Stephen, and he's got a grin darker than the starless Colorado sky. He knows what I'm going to decide.
I slide the bullet into one of the chambers.
He gives me a look of mock pity. "You are a coward, Blaine Litz." He leans forward and rests his elbows on the desk. "You will lose. If that gun doesn't go off..." his grin grows wider and his voice gets sinister, "you are free. But you will always be known as a coward, who abandoned his family, and everyone will know."
I recoil at his words and reach behind to touch my back. Where a burn stretches from one of my shoulders to the next. Where Touch of Eden scorched off my fur and tattooed their name and a heart being constricted by ivy. No one trusts a man with the mark of an Edenite, let alone a Katemphy with the mark of an Edenite.
"And if I ever see you again," he continues, "I won't be handing the gun off to you."
I swallow hard, I hope I'm not swaying all stupid-like, why he wants to get me tipsy before I make this decision is beyond me at the moment.
But I spin the cylinder and snap it in place anyways. I fumble through the steps like this were my first time handling a gun, and I press the muzzle to my temple.
I peek at Stephen one last time. How can he be so callous about this? He would always say I was his best fighter and he never wanted to see me leave. Now I have a gun to my head and he sits here not even worrying about the fact I have a one out of six chance of making a mess of his room.

I think of my brother, my family, this family.

Dahlia.

I shut my eyes and pull the trigger.

I never thought I would feel so crestfallen to hear the empty click.