Will you accept your fate or will you fight against the system?
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Posted: Feb 8 2018, 04:24 PM
It wasn’t always that Olivier had to make his way to the suspended offices where a smaller branch of his family’s business was located, but dad dearest thought it was good for Oli if he started to take a more active role in managing the smaller offices, to build experience so one day when he took over.
It wasn’t always he came to the small office, that was the point. So why today of all days was when everyone decided to bring the brutes to visit. Rabid animals who took part in the worst sport in existence, not the golds who sponsored the fights and pretended to be civilized, they actually had brought the obsidians to parade around. Big, burly, menacing men and women with more scars that there was skin in their bodies. Crooked noses and grimaces instead of the polite neutral smile you usually saw the upper class using. Olivier was appalled. Some days he thought golds were more brutish than obsidians themselves, and this was one of those days.
He was on the phone, trying to appear small as the gladiators paraded around and looked like they were one step away from punching each other through the floor. He was currently trying to convince his dad to come pick him up. “I know what I said dad. But I didn’t think there’d be animals roaming the streets. They should put them all in cages or leashes if they want to come out in the open like this. Please come get me…” His silver eyes scanned the crowd as he spoke.
Tag: RAWSON LYNCH
Posted: Feb 9 2018, 12:05 PM
As it was, the only person who liked the fact the obsidians were here less than Olivier, was Rawson himself.
This was a circus. All of it. A conglomeration of trained apes, dogs, and monkeys. It wasn’t as thought the Arena technically needed the press. At least, not by Rawson’s estimation. The bloodsport seemed to attract enough attention on its own within its target demographic without any of…
Well, this. This bullshit.
Lights. Reporters. Cameras. Metallic smiles of dizzying white teeth that ought to be pointed, given the sharks they belonged to. All to drum up hype for upcoming matches in a bid for more viewership, sponsors, and precious advertising revenue.
It didn’t matter. No one was here for his opinion. No one cared. His role — together with the rest of the gladiators dragged to this cesspit of the Regal Mile — was simple: Stand where they tell you, shirts off, and occasionally step forward and look menacing for the camera when your name gets called.
He despised this. Every part of it. He felt like a prized bull taken to market. Livestock. Muscle. Raw flesh and sinew, paraded to the highest bigger. An inadvertent cog in the metal meat-grinder that was the Novas Arena; a pit designed to exploit those with no hope left, and nothing else to trade but their lives.
The glare into the cameras, at least, did not need to be feigned.
The farce came to an end. Recess. Intermission. Whatever. They weren’t technically supposed to leave, in case someone called for reshoots or needed them as background padding them for a shot. And Rawson was the current prized bull, after all. They warned him not to go far.
He didn’t care.
He just needed out. At the first opportunity, he’d found his shirt, found his jacket, and was headed for the nearest elevator, shoulders squared, with a black look that sent most scurrying out of his path.
For many of the gladiators, this was their first visit to Upper Novas. Some were solemn, shaking their heads as they peered through wall length windows, watching the glittering expanse of the cityscape that seemed a world away from the slums and barracks most called home. Other, more seasoned fighters were used to the Pony Show by now, almost garnering a schadenfreude-esque amusement from the squirrelly, anxious looks of the metallics and middle-pigments as they went past.
It was a coping mechanism, in a way. If you couldn’t be respected, feared came a close second.
Of the precious metals and pretty colours, some were… well… a little less subtle in their distaste than others. It wasn’t that Rawson had been intentionally eves-dropping. More that it was hard not to overhear.
Rawson hadn’t waited in front of the elevators. Too many people. Too much by way of crowds. And in any sense, he was sick of being looked at. He was a private person at the best of times. Took his solace in solitude. And so instead, he’d pulled up around the corner, out of sight, rested his shoulder against wall to take the weight off an injured knee, and listened.
It was a sentiment he’d heard so many times before he should have been numb to it. But that didn’t stop the growl that nearly tore out of his throat, as though to prove the truth to the boy’s point.
The familiar sterile ding of the elevator echoed on the floor, and jaw clenched tight, Rawson stepped away from the wall, throwing the black hood of his jacket over his head as he went. He’d had enough. Of today. Of this. His head was starting to throb, and the joint in his knee still felt like it was rubbing sandpaper with every step, despite the dose of NSAIDs already coursing through his system.
There was only one boy taking the elevator, holding a phone to his ear. The boy was tall. Sleek, in that way Silvers so often were. He might have even been tall enough to pass for one of the smaller obsidians, were it not for the almost elfin build, fine limbs, and clear, unmarked face that only came from cultivated breeding and a lifetime of privilege.
If that didn’t give it away, the eyes did. That flash of bright silver irises. You didn’t afford trinkets like that on a Grey’s salary.
Rawson spared him a mutinous glare as he stepped into the elevator after him, broad frame casting a shadow inside the gleaming metal box, shoulders blocking the exit. He turned, facing away from him and with a bang, smashed the Elevator Close button with the side of his fist.
The sliding doors closed shut, sealing them both inside with a metal hiss of hydraulics.
… Cages, huh?
He had to wonder if the boy would feel comfortable continuing to voice his opinions now. Some metallics were more foolhardy than others.
Posted: Feb 14 2018, 09:27 PM
“-Oh, I have to take the lift- Yes I know dad, but please. I swear- Okay, I have to hung up, no signal inside.” At first he hadn’t paid much attention to the guy who entered the elevator behind him, he felt safe in this building, it was smacked in the middle of the upper class district, nothing bad would happen here so he was distracted, even with the supposedly monster that lurked in every corner. Surely the golds would keep their animals close by to avoid harm right? Right??
So when he hanged up and took a good look at the man who stood beside him, he gave an honest jump backwards until he felt the wall at his back. The man was absolutely massive, his head almost touching the ceiling. Not to mention the powerful muscles that looked like they could crush Olivier’s head with just a little pressure. But the deadliest giveaway was the scars, marring skin, deforming the man’s face and together with the glare it was like one of Olivier’s nightmares suddenly stood there in front of him.
Olivier’s face went pale and he straightened himself in a rigid position and shot a terrified smile at the man that looked more like a cringe. He stood as far away as possible from what could only be one of the obsidians. Did he hear what Oli said??? Oh gods, he did, didn’t he he? Was he going to punch Oli into a red mush that the browns would have to scrape off of the elevator floor?
He silent prayed that the elevator would please go faster so he could run away.
Tag: RAWSON LYNCH
Posted: Yesterday at 03:58 am
It was a sad state of affairs that Rawson wasn’t entirely surprised. True, admittedly an honest to God thud — as though the boy behind him had literally just kept back in desperation to get away from him — wasn’t the usual reaction, but he'd be lying if he said it was hadn't seen it before.
He should have been angry. Offended, at least. Hell, Gods knew he had the right. Instead, Rawson had to try not to laugh. Not honest laughter. No. There was very little about this that was genuinely funny when you stopped to think about it. It was more the kind of exhausted, cynical laughter one had to give when there was nothing else left.
He was tired.
He was just... tired.
When Rawson turned his head, the kid's forced smile already looked as though he was two seconds away from trying to scramble up the walls of the elevator in a bid for freedom.
“Easy, kid,” Rawson grumbled, although his coarse baritone night have sounded slightly more reassuring if it didn’t sound like he was snarling them through clenched teeth.
Between the pain in his leg and the shitshow of a day, he didn’t have a lot of spare energy for trying to be chipper. It wasn’t as though Rawson was any more thrilled than the Silver was about the idea of having to share the same oxygen, but thirty seconds in the elevator wasn’t going to kill either of them.
… Famous last words.
The elevator heaved beneath his feet as it began to move.
The jolt was too sudden, and without warning, the elevator lurched down, followed by a high pitched screech of scraping metal. Rawson looked up sharply, muscles in his neck tight as overhead, the lights flickered, and the elevator promptly ground to a halt.
“Son of a—”
There was a BANG, this time as Rawson’s fist slammed as the side of the metal with tightly coiled anger, the muscles in his neck tight as he glared up towards the roof, jaw clenched.
Had it just—?
“You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin'...”