Gallera Rumble

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“Gallera” Underground fighting club.
6:50 PM

“Ladies and gentlemen, Damas y Caballeros,” The words rang through the loudspeakers filling the arena and up the grandstand, the audience's attention was roused and drawn towards the front and stage.

Gallera is the biggest underground fighting ring in the entirety of Central and North America. Hidden beneath the city of “La Pedreada” that was, in itself, the re-purposed ruins of an ancient colonial settlement. The arena boasted luxury while maintaining the archaic mysticism of the ruins that preceded it. One that attracted a bit of everyone. From fanatics of adrenaline, to brutal violence to gambling entrepreneurs and, most prominent, subscribers to the decadence.

Five years since the place opened in official capacity, it’d grown in both luxury and epicness. What was once a fight club taking place in an abandoned hangar cordoned by a chain link fence, it came through multiple iterations and changes of locale, growing up to what was considered the final evolution. Now encircled by a mesh that merged both technology and magic wrapped around the gallery, designed to be as transparent as crystal but as strong as mithril, was the battlefield, a colosseum made by experts stained over and over with the sweat and blood of the combatants that were willing to make a name for themselves. All broadcasted out through social media and selected channels for an economic boon

For newcomers, the place might appear straightforward. Bare sandstone floor and nothing else but the four entrances in every one of the cardinal directions. It was an easy assumption to make. But with the help of a gadgeteer, two mages and a manifestor who joined the place: one master of the clockwork ingenuity and another, a bioengineer that could bend the plants to their will, there were no constraints to what they could do if they wished for a more interesting match-up.

While on-site tickets never sold out completely, they did online. With the advent of streaming services, the place was an instant hit within the clandestine websites, as well as places where this was allowed. From the city of Vegas, where there was an entire betting industry, to Japan or Karedonia where they reveled on the spectacle.

“Despierten, despierten, despierten y prepárense, because we’re starting tonight's entertainment. This is DJ Moski, the clamor of the arena!” A holographic screen was projected in the middle of the air of each section, where the announcer revealed himself. A man of tanned skin, slick black hair, and a frizzy mustache greeted everyone from the comfort of the control room. An obvious mutant judging by the extra pair of arms that sprouted beneath the first pair, he was always showing off keeping them busy. With the door behind him and the cluttering pieces of seemingly random odds and ends, it appeared as if he was filming from a basement.

“Buenas tardes a todos! Hope you’re ready for tonight! ¿Estan listos?” The answers varied from the sector of the grades they focused on. The more casual, occupied mostly by locals and the cheap entries came in with almost roaring clamor, as did the groups that came desiring to see the bloodshed that would ensue. While the high tier audience gave a more subdued reaction.

“Good!” DJ Moski said, regardless of the answer. “You all know why tonight is so special, don’t you? Esta noche, we’re starting the first night of the Ultimate Gaffer Tournament FIVE!” Some audio cues were thrown in, mostly the increasing pre-recorded cheers to go along with the true fans of the event.

“Que nostalgia,” DJ Moski said, pretending to blow his nose with one hand while another gave himself a pat on the back. “To think that five years ago, we poured our souls, blood and sweat, but mostly sweat, into fulfilling our dream.”

“We wanted to entertain the masses with true unadulterated combat and issued the challenge. Warriors answered. Gallos de pelea. Combats that won the interest of the world! That, ladies, and gentlemen, was the Ultimate Gaffer Tournament. The first!”

“And here we stand. Five years later, having offered exhibitions, legendary encounters, settled age-old rivalries. Spectacle and brutality. Technology and magic. Martial artists or death matches. ¡Ha sido una aventura increíble! ¡Y esperamos por cinco más de fama!”

The recording played throughout the speech, showing more highlights of previous tournaments. A man dressed in an iron suit squaring off against a giant wingless dragon, a dark-skinned girl with glowing fists squaring off versus a man holding an axe in one hand and a bazooka in the other, and a towering man that was built like a tank, with muscled arms as thick as canons crushing through a barrier to reach a woman. Multiple fighting angles, seemingly different locales and a large roster of characters with champions and regulars standing out for the regular viewer.

DJ appeared back on the screen. “But you lot are not here to listen to us reminisce and watch the highlights, aren’t you? ¿Quieren sangre? Do you want blood?” Moski hyped up the crowd and was answered with a clamor.

“Tonight! To officially kick off the Ultimate Gaffer Tournament 5, we have something special.” The projection split itself into four, arranged in a diamond pattern. Lower three screens showed different points of view of the field through the eyes of three drones that hovered around the inside of the ring, making a sweep for the audience who reacted by making a wave or flashing out some signs.

In one of the feeds, one of the individuals raised his fist and threw some blue fire that crisped into the air like fireworks. The camera zoomed in as he was tagged, even after he sat down. “Heyheyhey! Me gusta tu entusiasmo. But we ask the audience to avoid using powers while in the vicinity. That is our only rule!”

There was no answer but a small bit of silence. The drone gave what was close to a nod before continuing its hovering.

“A good time to remind folks how we do things here.” Moski found the segway for the comment. “While the audience is seated down, they can’t interfere with the participants. EMP field emitters will activate any sort of signal. If it’s of an invasive manner, you’ll be given a warning to cease it or leave the premises. So, if you don’t want to fry the circuits of everyone’s phones, I recommend you heed the advice. Or better yet, turn off your phone’s wireless connection until the combat is over. Not that you’ll need them because you’ll be entertained. The same is true for magic users. Any probability manipulators in the crowd needed to be vetted before arriving, failing to comply will have severe consequences, is that clear?”

There was no answer, though many of the individuals around reached down for their phones as a precaution.

“As I was saying,” DJ Moski added as his screen switched off to display a schedule for the evening. “Tonight, we have a treat for those joining us. We kick off the tournament with an exhibition match. A preview of what’s to come in the next weeks, we have our special guest. Our resident champion and he who already has earned the right to enter the sixteenth bracket. ¿Quien sera? You all know who I’m talking about. El Monigote rompehuesos, the walking fortress, the clapping bazooka! It’s none other than MAAATADOOR!”

The crowd began to cheer in sections. The bloodthirsters were among the loudest as a looming figure entered the field. A Caucasian man with the body of a titan. With a squared jaw and shaved hair at the sides of his head. A tough guy brute with the power to back it up, resembling an idealized gladiator, a titan that towered above two meters of height. He certainly acted the part as he raised his arms to greet the cheers of the crowd, striking his own open palm for a sonorous clap followed by a warring scream that got everyone riled up. The drones flew around him capturing multiple angles.

“It seems like our main man has some words to say,” Moski said as one of the cameras flew closer for a headshot. “Matador, do you have something to say?”

“Of course, I do!” He laughed with a deep booming voice. His hands reached over to grip the sides of the drone to deliver his spiel. “Champion of this tournament for two years in a row. I pity those who try to steal my third! Because who am I?” He asked throwing the drone into the air, which managed to regain control of its flight before it would crash to the ground.

“Matador!” The crowd chanted.

“What they call me?!”

“God of wrath!”

“And what do I do?!”

“Pummel” “Smash!” “Clap!”

Matador took a step back, a grin appearing on his face. With a sudden raise of the arms, everyone joined in the cheer.

“Wow… that is certainly a way to warm up the crowd,” Moski said to the speakers as the cameras flew back. “Okay. As I was saying, tonight, Matador is facing a rematch with three runner ups from the previous Ultimate Gaffer tournament in an exhibition caged match. Simple and clean just so you can appreciate the destruction we usually have, pero que todos esperamos.” The image of Matador appeared on the screen followed by mugshots of the other three opponents.

“Afterward, we’ll begin the classificatory job.” The screen switched back to the schedule, marking what the next five hours would be. “We have eight of the sixteen seats already reserved for invited fighters… However! We’re still looking for the remaining half. What will follow will be four battle royales where the best two will classify.” The camera flew over towards the grades where the fighters were chomping at the bit for the opportunity to compete. More than one of them were brutes who cracked their knuckles and looked at their toughest as long as the lens was upon them. “Future participants, remember to step backstage during the first, second, third and fourth interludes. TheGalleratournamentboardoesn’ttakeresponsabilityforbrokenbones,longlastinginjuries,orevendeath.Ifyoudon’tsignthewaiverwegiveyoubeforethefightwewarnyouofthelegalandnotsolegalavenueswehave,suchasextortion,kidnapping,maulings,andpostalharassment.Sotryandsueusifyoudare.”

To that, many of the present challengers reacted with a hearty laughter while another part was already second guessing their decision.

“Now then. We’re moving on to the main event. Let’s start with the first challenger of the exhibition. Coming from the lands of Animalia, this fighter is not your typical workhorse-”

The feed fizzled out of the sudden, much like a computer in the process of crashing, the graphics copied themselves, creating repeating instances on the screen that began to break apart. “What… what’s happening with the system,” Moski’s jagged words came in through the feed along with the sounds of buttons being pressed.

“Pendejades de mierda… I don’t care if they were given the night off, they were supposed to do their job to keep this from happening. What the…” Moski said, apparently unaware he was still live. “Get me maintenance on the line.”

The words were cut as the sound of the stage’s gears being woken up into work filled the auditorium followed by the grinding of bricks and stone followed. The ‘shifting battlefield’ as they called the arena was a technical marvel to see at work. A mixture of mystic arts, technology and gadgeteer ingenuity, it began to assume and alter itself on the requested configuration, the great field that was, oftentimes called, the “all in”. It moved all at once with enchanting fluidity that quelled those that weren’t thinking whatever happened was an act .

All gates closed with a sordid slam. Though Matador was barely in panic as he walked towards the outlined center ring, well versed in some of the configurations. “Someone is asking for a beating!” he boasted.

The arena began with a tremble as sandstone bricks sank and pulled to the side, revealing bits of the inner workings of the scenario. In some places, huge chains rose from the ground, guided by sturdily configured drones upwards, towards the ceiling where they latched with another part of the machinery. Reeled upward, the fractures on the floor made themselves more apparent.

Parts were lowered and others were raised, lifted off the ground to reveal the retreating machinery of the place. Gears moved and adjusted to provide stability as more of what was beneath was revealed: A cavernous drop into a subterranean lake, with the mineral-heavy smell of the water sifting up into the air.

The chains rattled as they held platforms whilst other pieces of the ground attached themselves to the wall at different levels. Then the ground shook itself as the engineered trees and roots that grew alongside the edge of the cavern’s wall, just above the water experienced an induced growth. Turning themselves lively, they stretched out growing in a controlled manner, spiraling its way up whilst threading its path under any of the platforms to provide additional support, creating bridges that flourished.

Matador stood his ground as the world changed. Already used to this sort of scenario, he already knew how to avoid getting trapped by the gears. The setup was one they didn’t use frequently but it was reserved for some of the more special fights. The engines and systems let out a hard clank as everything was locked into place and what was once a flat fighting environment was now turned into five platforms that stood at multiple heights. The four entrances were at the third level: a central field connected by a bridge.

From there came the aesthetic alterations. The sandstone bricks slowly began to shift and morph as pre-made spells were activated. The lowest level of height and second to highest one had the bricks slowly raise themselves from the ground and projected into stone structures, forming walls and pieces of cover. The former resembling a forest of stone whilst the latter mimicking the layout of a temple with walls and stairs. The second from lowest and the highest tier had a different change. The sandstone seemed to melt itself into soil as grass emerged to fill the floor, growing into lifelike, albeit fake, flora. Grass covering the floor whilst some of the branches from the growing trunk pushed through the ground and formed into trees that fully bloomed.

As a last touch, the underground river that ran beneath the arena slowly became tumultuous and its path turned cyclical, into a whirlpool that would threaten to drag whoever fell into it. Many of the regular watchers dubbed it “the toilet”. Excited of having only seen it used about four times since the Gallera has been open, many of the regular viewers clamored in celebration.

“I’m not doing it… what? Why would I do it? Do you have any idea the energy and the cost this setup has on us?! Well, do something. I’m still operating all three cameras. Ahem… Sorry folks, we seem to be having some technical problems…. “ Moski struggled to regain his composure, but only a few of the viewers were complaining, the rest were appreciating the spectacle or playing along with the supposed act. The curiosity was driving up the views and donations.

And then, the topmost screen returned, showing DJ Moski and his room, though there was a difference.

“Are we back? Do we have control of the cameras again?” He said as he used his fourth hand, the only one that wasn’t operating any of the cameras to wipe his brow. “Sorry folks. We are experiencing problemas tecnicos and- What the-” His words broke down as he noticed a figure standing behind him, just in front the lone door to the room move towards him. Once he realized it was another person, he made a jump that almost had the camera drones crash into each other.

The strange figure, its face outside of the focus of the camera, produced a handgun, pressing it up against the commentator’s head.

“Mano, mano. Tranquilo…”

“Read this,” the figure, a man, said, producing a piece of paper with his other hand.

With a nudge of the barrel, Moski took the note and unfolded it. Without even reading first he began to recite the words. “Ladies and gentlemen. Sorry for the minor inconveniences we’re experiencing. But tonight, we have a surprise change of plans. The three challengers that were supposed to face up with Matador, have been released of their obligations… seriously?”

When the gun was pressed up against his head, he continued. “But to make up for it, we’re providing you with a unique, once in a lifetime extravaganza. A special stage-shattering event, you might say. An unknown new fighter is rising up for the challenge to face up with Matador. A round of applause.”

As he said that, the figure behind Moski reached to punch one of the buttons on the console to open the gate opposite to the one Matador used. A slow rise with all the eyes and cameras spying on the newcomer. Those watching the livestream were also drawn with renewed interest at the turn of events and who might be even more daring to pull this stunt. Unsurprisingly, they took to their most convenient forum and chatroom to start the gossip talk and speculation.

The challenger entered the field with a subdued walk contrasted to that of the champion. The gate closed behind it, raising a gust but barely phasing the figure. Compared to Matador himself, the stranger was at a huge physical disadvantage. Standing about a meter seventy, a lithe figure with its body hidden by a long poncho with a hood that coated its face, hiding it from sight.

“Is this some sort of joke?” Matador said with a mocking laugh, a couple of insincere chuckles were heard around, especially from the applicant fighter’s section as the challenger walked down the length of the bridge. The boots at its feet were an odd design, thick around soles while at the same time fastening themselves around slender legs..

“I regret to tell you, but I don’t hit women.” Matador continued.

“Why are you lying about that?” the stranger spoke up, the voice clear thanks to the camera drone’s audio, belonging to a girl. “We both know that you’ve done worse than hitting.”

Matador didn’t enjoy being talked back. “You better watch your tongue.”

“Or what?” The girl said, her voice strong and defiant. One of the cameras strafed around the air, trying to peer under the stranger’s hood to make out her face. She turned away with a ‘tsk’ of irritation.

“Stop it,” the figure behind Moski pressed the gun again.

“Bueno, bueno…” the commentator muttered as the cameras pulled back.

“I’m your only challenger of the night and I’m here for a dance with you. Although I doubt a gorilla like you can keep up with me, you should at least try, for the sake of the crowd. Or is the great Hacron afraid of a little girl?”

“Hacron?” The word was echoed by some of the crowd.

The champion glared down at the challenger’s way.

“Sorry, you go by Matador here, right? Hacron is your ‘freelance’ name,” the girl said.

“Who are you?”

“You can call me the ‘Toro’ to your ‘Matador’, for all I care.”

“Answer me.” Matador snorted. “Are you someone who comes after me? I have encounters like this every month. They never turn out in their favor. But they’re always fast.”

“You have an ugly face,” the challenger said as she reached the center stage, a circular arena that was even a smaller version of its original form. “You’re a fast healer from what I know… but for some reason, you have issues healing cutaneous bacterial injuries, don’t you? That cat scratch you have on your cheek.”

Hacron frowned as his right hand twitched to keep himself from reaching the injury that was still there, three lines that adorned his right cheek. “You’re an upstart little bitch.”

“I’m the bull that will gore you, the bitch that will bring you to tears and the no one who will defeat you,” the challenger held more confidence now.

“Sparks are flying out between those two already, folks. ¿Podría ser este el inicio de una nueva saga?” Moski said unprompted by the note, though at the insistence of the figure in the room with him and his crew, he carried on. “Ahem… No rules, no hold backs. A fight to the death or until both parties agree to a ceasefire. We’re busting out the big guns. The great stage, the full feed, the surprise twist. So, sit down and relax for the next… Six hours?!” Moski turned to look at the figure’s face. “Are you serious? You can’t hold us hostage! We have protection contracts with the syndicates and…”

“Keep reading.”

“Fine,” Moski grumbled as he went back to the note. “But do not worry, this isn’t a hostage situation.” He rolled his eyes. “I repeat, this is not a hostage situation. There’s no danger here to cause panic. No reason to call Superheroes to the Syndicate-run clandestine fighting ring. No one will get hurt and you’re allowed to leave. But don’t try to get backstage. You did pay to remain seated for the next six hours, so what’s the difference? Just enjoy the show.” Some people from the benches raised objections and booed at the feed, but none left. They were just as invested in the matter.

“Six hours. Stuck with me. I know I won’t surrender first.” The challenger spoke up whilst Hacron still seemed taken aback by the audacity of the challenge.

“Then you will die,” Matador warned, fury rising up in his voice as he put his leg forth, preparing a runner’s position.

“Not if you break first.”