[PERDITA FORTUNA DELGADO-VAUGHN]

April 2024 • outfit • DALTON FINN ELLIS

Perdita Delgado-Vaughn couldn't believe it even when her brown eyes laid upon the scene. In some derelict building, there was a fight going on before her - a cage match, and there was a substantial crowd. The cheers and jeers were loud, bouncing off the walls. It was shocking the vibrating didn't send the police coming, but perhaps, given the part of town, nobody was here to call. She hadn't been expecting to find this place, the location supposedly changes each night they schedule, yet here she was, at Willow Bridge's Underground Fight Club for lack of a better word. Guess they didn't get the rule about how no one talks about Fight Club.

There were all sorts of people here it looked like, and all sorts of fighters ranging from tattoo and bulky to lean and scrappy. One thing she noticed though, all fighters were men. Woman were just there to cheer. It made her roll her eyes, mainly to herself. Perdita had come here alone, sans either of her three cousins. That was fine. They were still warming up to her, and she didn't feel like pushing it nor felt like walking a verbal tight rope. It felt like that was all what Perdita did as of late, watch her mouth, and it was really starting to bother her. How had she sunken so fucking low since losing it all in Valencia?

Angry now at the thought, she clocked a make shift bar off to the side - serving only god knows what, but that didn't matter. She slinked her way through the crowd, going unnoticed as eyes were too busy on the cage match inside. Making her way to the bar now, Perdita waved down the bar tended and got herself a shot of whiskey. The burn was an ugly reminder. She finished, placing the small glass down with such anger and asked for another. The young woman turned her back now, watching the fight before someone slammed into her, "Hey! Watch it!" Her snap was angry, bitchy. Her temper flared more as she made eye contact with some drunken idiot who thought he could get lucky. He never got a chance. One step in, and she already sidestepped, swing her elbow up high to clock him in the temple before her hand slammed his skull down into the bar, knocking him out.

She watched in satisfaction as body crumbled to the ground, the crowd around them going quiet as she looked up now, "Is any one else going to interrupt my drink?" And just like that, everything went back to normal. Or, as normal as what could be for the situation. Yet, Perdita still felt eyes boring into her from somewhere, and as she took a sip of her shot now, she waited to see if they would make themselves known.

My knuckles were bruised like violets, sucker punching walls

thanks aofie!

[DALTON FINN ELLIS]

Dalton's night wasn't working out in his favour, and he was pissed about it. Typically, it wasn't his night to fight. He rarely got the chance these days, life seemed to be full of bullshit paperwork and overseeing. He wasn't a trainer, he wasn't a cheerleader or a fucking babysitter, and he refused to be shoe horned in any of those roles. He might have had his differences with his co-owner, but he'd helped to build this place, and he'd be damned if he was going to be hustled out for refusing to bring in ridiculous ideas about death matches and fighting animals for fuck sake. He'd always been a scrapper, a fighter, and in his opinion, the bare knuckle fights to knock out were more than enough. Plenty of men still walked away with life altering injuries, that was enough foolery for Dalton to deal with. There was an element of luck, but boxing came down to technique, fitness and emotion. Too little of one, too much of another, you fucked it.

He sat out of sight, above the ground floor of the club. He didn't usually like to sit up top, it felt pretentious. He usually mingled with the crowds down below, in the heat and sweat of it all, observing both the punters and the participants. This was a business, legal or not, and it still needed to be run as one - if punters got out of line they needed handling, if they weren't happy with the verdicts of the fights, it had to be noted. They didn't fix fights here, at least, not on Dalton's watch, though some people called for it, some people accused. He could hear them now, a swell of angry drunks complaining about the wedge they'd lost on a fight just now. They should have known - the young contender had been far too up himself and was a rookie, despite his virility. His older and larger opponent might have been slow, but he had a fair fitness and had flattened the young lad in a matter of seconds. Dalton had seen it coming a mile off, any seasoned expert worth his salt would have.

Sighing, he got up from the leather comfort and came to stand at the railing, leaning his forearms against the cold of the metal and ignoring the next fight in favour of the crowd. It was rowdy tonight, more so than usual. His gaze flickered to the heaving of the bar - curious as to the mood. More drinks than normal? Perhaps the tenders were faster tonight and getting more alcohol out, serving more people, or were they being a little too healthy on their measures, giving a little too much double in their single shots. He had just turned his watchful gaze away when there was a commotion at the bar. Not unusual, there was always some kind of trouble, it was just whether the trouble was worth recruiting or not. What was unusual, however, was that this was a woman. Oddly enough, not many women were drawn to the ring. It was a boys club, and they didn't host women fights -sexist sure, but Dalton didn't have the time or patience for the drama of it all, something he only just agreed with his co-owner about. They came to watch, usually on the arms of burly fighters or in giggling groups, wanting to see men hit each other in animalistic violence so they could get their rocks off.

"Is any one else going to interrupt my drink?" Fiesty. Opinionated. Intriguing. These type didn't tend to gravitate to Dalton's club and out of interest, he headed down into the pit to get a closer look. If she started causing issues, she'd have to be out on her very perky ass, on the other hand, perhaps it wouldn't be hard to smooth things over to quit the disgruntled glances from the surrounding blokes before they began to make a fuss. After a moment of observation, Dalton smoothly inserted himself in a gap at the bar - people automatically parting for the suited up bossman. "It's on the house," He instructed the closest bartender before they could ring up her shot. "And another, just to show my hospitality." He added, his sharp gaze gave the tender no choice but to abandon their current drink and quickly whip up to fresh shot glasses, pouring out spirit into each - the good stuff, as it was Dalton, and he'd be pissed if they served him the watered down vodka like some stupid customer.