Story of a Street Fighter

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I woke up in darkness, barely able to see. My jeans blended in with the darkness while my anime shirt hung loosely on my shoulders.

I stood up and searched for an exit of my small space, only to find I was locked in. Of course.

I slammed my shoulder into the door over and over again, ignoring the throbbing pain shooting up my arm. There was no way I would be abducted without a fight, though my idiotic attempts of escape might just get me killed.

I shrugged that thought off, finally breaking down the door, and could now see I was in a closet. Clichè much?

Mats were spread out across the room. A speed bag hung near me with two punching bags hanging from the ceiling. Hand wraps and gloves sat in baskets on a shelf in the top of the closet.

"So ya are a fighteh?" asked a man with an Irish accent. I whirled around to see him leaning against the only door out. "Intrudehs don't alwaehs have tha much detehmination."

He couldn't have been older than seventeen or eighteen. He had sweaty brown hair that stuck up in different areas, clover green eyes, and a bruise on his cheek. The man wore a tight black T-shirt, navy shorts, and black shoes. He was tan, taller than me, and would've been intimidating were it not for his accent.

"Who are you?! What the hell is going on?!" I demanded.

"Whoa there, I'll be askin' the questions," he corrected. "Now maehbeh ya should tell meh why ya were snoopin' around hereh."

I glared at him. "After you tell me what I want to know," I said defiantly. After a shake of his head, I tried to push past him, only to be pinned to the wall.

"I've explained how this'll work, if ya don't coopehate ya might not make it out alive."

I struggled against his grip, despite his threat. He narrowed his eyes, tightening his grip on me. His face was inches from mine.

I head-butted him as hard as I could without causing myself too much harm. Needless to say, it still hurt. He stumbled back, giving me a chance to run for the door. But my chance was cut short when he grabbed my arm, spinning me around.

"I don't want to hurt ya, but I won't have a choice if ya keep doin' tha," he groaned.

I could hear the plead in his tone and slowly nodded.

He let go of my arm, smiling. "Betteh. Now tell meh who ya are and why ya came through hereh."

I gave him a strange look. "What does it matter? I didn't come here to cause harm. Why can't you just let me go?"

He sighed. "Look. Ya obviously have no idea wha ya got yaself into. Tell meh wha I neehd to know and ya should beh fine."

"Well, my name is Kaida. That's a start. I was walking home and I heard noises. Fighting, cheering. I made the decision to check it out."

He shook his head, putting a hand over his eyes in a face palm motion. "Wheh would ya eveh do tha? Do ya have aneh idea where ya are?"

By his reaction I knew the answer couldn't have been good.

"Streeht fightin'. Or at leahst an adaptation of it. Ya're in the hideout of one of the ehlihte fightin' groups," he explained.

I took a step away and felt the door against my back. Street fighting. That wasn't much of an answer but it didn't sound good. "What will happen to me?" I asked.

"I was told, if ya fought back, tha ya would beh tested as a fighteh."

"But-"

"No buts. Ya got yaself into this mess. Ya have to fight ya way out."

"What do you mean?" I asked, though I was sure I understood.

"Ya fight, simple as tha. Ya win, ya get paid, maehbeh even hired."

"And if I lose?" I asked.

He looked away from me. "Don't lose."

I was about to ask him to clarify when someone yelled through the door. "Irish! The girl a fighter?"

He walked over to me. "I know, I know. Not a crehative nickname. But yea, call meh Irish."

Irish opened the door. "Sheh's a fighteh aright." He grabbed my wrist and took me away.

((A/N: Yes, I realize Irish is hard to understand and almost everything he says is spelled wrong. But that is so I as the author can develop his accent. Translation- it was way too much fun. So Irish will continue speaking this way. Hehe.))