S2, E6 | A One Way Ticket to Mercer Arena

\ Seattle - 1930 /
\ Saturday, 13th September 1930 /

“Just go win” Jimmy whispers to himself, swaying from side to side with his foot tapping against the ground amidst each lean, eyes staring at the ground as his head bobs back and forth. “Just go win” he repeats, subduing his voice beneath the weight of the audience’s applause, listening to the sea of jubilation from a crowd so packed together that some aren’t even able to sit- filed into the building without comfort or luxury out of a need to witness this fight.

“Just go win” he murmurs again, stepping aside in the cramped corridor he waits within for the crew tasked with freshening up the fight pit to hurry off- carrying the brooms and mops that have gathered debris and blood throughout the duration of the evening just as they do any other. “Just go win” his whispers carry forward, convincing himself that the task is one of simplicity and ease, all that’s required of him to receive what he’d been yearning for.

Pounding against the ground, the stomps of the audience prompt the ground beneath him to shake, supplying the air with a rising tension that he’d already prepared for. Entering not just a fighting pit, but the den of a lion in search of proving that they are the top of their pack, Jimmy embarks on a battle that sees only the fittest survive.

“They’re getting rowdy, aren’t they?” Rota wonders aloud, turning the corner to find his opponent for the evening standing around, ready to enter the arena upon the call of his name. Not responding at first, the much more lean fighter balls his fists and begins lifting them toward his abdomen, preparing to spar with his adversary in the event that the start of their fight isn’t brought on by the referee’s declaration.

Letting the question fail to earn a response, the taped-fist sportsman watches as his physically superior-appearing rival calmly steps forward, the soles of his boots kicking up dry dirt from the floor they scrape along. “Relax, I’m not here to whack you before the referee says I can. I’m just waiting for my name to be called like you” Rota reassures, civilly stepping up to his fellow combatants side with eyes carried toward the end of the hallway, knowing their presence to be called for from beyond any moment now.

“I don’t have any problem with you. The others may have issues of their own with you, but I don’t” Rota reassures, turning his face to look at the scrappy, similarly-aged fighter, whose eyes already remain firmly placed upon the side of his face. “This is just about getting paid to me. I’ve taken enough crap in my life and I want it to pay off for once” the imposing specimen calmly concludes with a shrug, “this is just business for me.”

“I’m gonna beat you” Jimmy hastily rebuttals, not waiting much longer beyond his fellow bruiser’s clarification to double down on his determination to make this evening pay off. Keeping his eyes held on the man, the human obstacle runs his hand over his recently-cut head of hair, its strands slicked back to avoid being damped by sweat. Not changing the expression he’d carried through his explanation, Rota instead allows his opponent to step forward, not yet done speaking.

“This is personal for me, this is personal for my friends. If Kenny wants to put you in front of me- fine... I’ll run right over you” the man of roughly two inches less height comments, drawing a slight lift in the grin of his adversary. “I hope the money that Kenny pays you from our fight will be worth pairing up with people who’d rather hide from a fight like a scared child than face it like a man” Jimmy doubles down, getting within inches of the other man’s face as he makes this vow, “you’ve made an enemy of my friends and I. We don’t take kindly to people that stand in our way.”

Amused and unable to help but let out a singular chuckle at the comment, Rota’s eyes take back toward the direction he’s meant to venture toward, hearing the microphone-wielding commenter begin to address the crowd for their final bout of the evening. Rolling up a piece of paper towel into something more compact and layered, the muscular brute returns his glare toward his shorter opponent, both eyebrows lifted without concern over the declaration waged.

“Good luck tonight, Mr. Jimmy” Rota retorts, offering a brief bow before placing the rolled up paper towel behind his lips, placing a shield between the outer flesh of his face and teeth he wishes to protect. Without another word, the man drags his boots along the unforgiving ground as he marches forward, entering a coliseum that- in his eyes- he is a gladiator of, prepared to do the service of Seattle’s emperor in putting on a show for the people.

With a mindset entirely set on revenge and endurance, Jimmy’s eyes follow the taller, thicker figure until it vanishes around the corner, entering a world of mixed reaction at the call of a name. Seething in his place, the hooverville survivor rids his mind of the conversation entirely, smacking himself on the side of the head to clear the remarks as he focuses entirely on the scene he’ll be called to within seconds.

“Just go win” he mutters once more, violently shaking his head as it’s thrown forward, his arms swinging forward to loosen the joints within them whilst his legs do the same. Wiping the moisture from his lips on the side of his hand, Jimmy breaks free from his place in the middle of the corridor and follows the lead that Rota had blazed prior to him, rounding the corner and entering the public’s line of sight to an even more audible mixed reaction.

= Seattle Noir is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and his entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward =

Clouded by the ringing in his ear, Jimmy catches notice of the crowd’s vocal expression of awe and concern as he drops to a knee, his jaw struck with a punch that he’d initially set out to keep himself standing through, only to find his balance giving out. Bouncing from the mat as quickly as his knee had fallen to it, the physically-outmatched, yet odds-on-favourite returns to a fight-ready position, both fists reserved out in front of him as he shakes off the jab.

“Alright then” Rota calmly remarks aloud, his face clear of any wounds aside from the brief shakes of his jaw, clearly having built up a slight strain from each of Jimmy’s connected dodges. Circling around each other as they both remain more than capable of keeping their standing in the fight secure, the pair of show-stealers continue to feel each other out, looking for any opening that the other provides whilst also making sure to cover their bases.

“It’s been a good one so far” Norman comments, sitting in the corner of one row directly level with the former warehouse’s original floor, he and his business partner having wanted to avoid being amidst the public with how high the stakes of their current bout reside. “And it better end as a good one as well” Wilbur replies, wearing neither a grin, nor a frown as he watches on, clearly having allowed himself to take on a partisan approach to this fight just as his friend had.

Ducking a swing, Jimmy throws his fist into the strong core of his adversary before pulling back, offering another quick jab to the bottom of his foe’s chin in the process. Those in the audience that had been worried of his momentum in the fight now briefly flip that emotion into hope, they watch collectively as Rota takes a pair of quick steps backward, feeling the impact of the blows with enough awareness to create as much separation as he can muster.

On the offensive nonetheless, Jimmy meets his opponent’s retreat with an advancement, matching each step whilst taking jabs, hoping to connect with one whenever possible. Running out of real estate behind himself to buy in desertion of his onslaught, Rota continues carrying himself backward before bracing into a dive forward, throwing himself beneath one of his contemporary’s heavy strikes and quickly hurrying back to the centre of the platform.

“Damn!” the leaner of the pair exclaims in frustration, nearly having backed his foe into the corner, only to let him slip away and regain all the ground he’d cut into. Smiling beneath the makeshift, paper towel mouth guard, Rota swipes his taped fists through the air to loosen himself up as he steadies his demeanour, watching as the man he’s been tasked with keeping from Kenny’s line of sight advances once more, this time without the metaphorical high ground.

“How does he keep dodging everything Jim’s throwin’ at him!?” Jesse proclaims, watching from the opposite row of seats than the ones that their Kenny-led rival faction occupy. “Because Rota’s fighting smart. He’s not a hot head like Arthur or overly-conservative like Willard. He’s balanced” Cathy replies, gesturing her hand toward the direction of the men she mentions by name, “he knows what Jimmy wants to do and he’s not letting him have it.”

Ducking low beneath another of Rota’s strikes, the clean-shaven bruiser attempts to land another blow to the man’s strong body as he had seconds prior, only to leap back at the last minute as the attempted punch is pulled. Having feigned the same shot that his opponent had countered, the muscular specimen of a man instead uses his opposite hand to throw a genuine uppercut in the bruiser’s direction, catching him by surprise and narrowly missing him by inches.

Retreating three steps before bouncing off the platform a few times, Jimmy regains his composure as Rota laughs from beneath the makeshift dental cover, knowing that he’s beginning to get the better of his foe. Just as aware of this, the nearly-beheaded fighter drops his shoulders with a deep exhale before readying himself in a fighting stance once more, holding a passing thought intended to keep him on his guard at the next sign of a fake strike.

“Even though neither of us want him to win, credit must be given to him...” Norman remarks, leaning closer to his friend whilst spectating, “...Rota’s the perfect kind of fighter.” Unable to find fault in the statement despite wishing to, Wilbur shrugs as he settles further into his seat, hands pressed together and palms forcefully shoving against each other, concerned about his big money fight’s status by the end of the night.

“Just go win” Jimmy whispers to himself as he re-enters the position of battle, aware that such an easy command is far simpler to think of than it is to accomplish. Comfortable in his place within the bout, Rota begins to settle into a groove, each step coming off with ease whilst each half-hearted jab is delivered exactly where he wants it to be, gradually continuing to throw the foe off his guard.

Mentally coming to the worry that he may be losing the fight’s momentum, the constantly-dodging gentleman focuses more on prolonging the battle for as long as he can. Pulling his head away from a succession of three jabs before side-stepping Rota’s fourth strike, Jimmy watches the bigger man’s figure pass by him as desired, allowing his fist to land directly upon the bigger heavyweight’s right cheekbone.

“There you-!” Wilbur proclaims, cutting himself off before he can finish the claim, aware that he and Norman have purposefully distanced themselves away from the public, but still not wanting to present any illusion to partisanship. “There you go, Jim!” he whispers instead, earning a pat on the shoulder from his wealthy friend whilst the fight continues, leaving Rota to bounce his knee off the mat just as Jimmy had minutes prior.

Shaking off the cobwebs, the muscle of Kenny’s group readjusts his posture and begins to retreat in circles, quickly stepping backward in a spherical motion whilst Jimmy follows along from the pit’s centre. Wanting to use his speed and stamina to refocus the momentum into his favour, Rota’s wheel-like backtracking comes to a sudden stop as he reverses course, now forward-stepping in a circle before closing in on the man across from him.

Having placed a focus on where he throws his hands, the brute figure descends upon his centralised opponent with spinning fists, planning an attack overlooked by his adversary. Within range, Rota drops to a knee again and swipes his feet across the platform’s surface, taking Jimmy out by the legs in a swift motion, prompting the brawler to brace as he topples over, colliding with the mat viciously.

Present of mind enough to remain conscious of the fight’s circumstance the moment he hits the mat, Jimmy watches his standing opponent leap toward the ground with a fist ready, wanting to take advantage of the man whilst off his feet. Refusing this opportunity, the downed man presses his hands against the nailed-together, wooden boards their bout takes place upon and thrusts his foot into the air, his boot’s heel slamming directly into the centre of Rota’s face to a chorus of audible roar.

“Yes, Jim!” Jesse proclaims, watching his friend take advantage of the foe’s attack, utilising his own defence as offence in itself. “Damnit, Rota!” Kenny exclaims in the same moment, nearly throwing himself out of his seat as he watches the head of his one-man wrecking crew of an acquaintance thrust backward, kicked in by the force of a heavy shoe. Violent and sudden, Rota’s head thrashes back as the opponent’s heel meets its mark, affording Jimmy the opportunity to climb off the ground.

Dazed and suffering from massive whiplash, Rota instinctively throws himself away from his adversary the moment his face is battered in, bouncing off a knee with a quick crawl away. Hurrying forward with balled fists, Jimmy watches as his aspirant tries to regain his bearings, struggling to do so as he winces in pain, having taken a massive blow without much in the way of protection.

Still on a knee, Jimmy throws his fist into the side of Rota’s head twice as the larger man attempts to crawl and stammer away, unable to make it back to his feet properly as the war wages on. “No! No! NO!” Kenny proclaims within the audience, sharing in the same distraught realisation that the tides have swung entirely within their foe’s favour at each punch landed that Rota just can’t find a defence for.

Smelling blood in the water, Jimmy continues to follow the wounded animal of a contender with blows to be dealt, aiming for the head as if his adversary were a serpent and the kill was one he needed to make right then and now. Refusing to go down without being fully aware of where he is and when the next strike is coming for him, Rota shields his face from one shot after another whilst unable to make it off of one knee, hoping to just buy time as he pulls his arm back for a heavy swing.

Unrelenting in his thirst to topple the beast of a human in the name of getting to the prize at the end of the blood-covered tunnel, Jimmy swings with reckless abandon as his nemesis’ strong hand tries shoving him away. One after another, his hand pulls back and fires forward like a brass jacket ripping through the barrel of a gun, sights fully set on ending this contest until the moment that those same sights go dark within an instant.

Desperate and resorting to whatever can stop the brutal shots, Rota throws his fist into the air underhandedly without any mind toward where it’s going, his balled fist ripping into the air with great luck before cracking Jimmy beneath the chin. In an instant, the hands of the brawler on the offensive go from strong and forceful to entirely limp, the man’s advancement coming to a shocking end as his body collapses backward, spit flying from his lip as he descends through the air and crashes into the mat.

“No! Godda-!” Wilbur howls, punching the air as he leaves his seat, unable to bypass the emotion the forces him into a public corner, still not recognised by most of those who’d paid for admission. “AH! YES!” Kenny proclaims as he leaps from his seat, Arthur following the same act of jubilation whilst Jesse nearly falls out of his seat in horror, watching Jimmy crater into the mat like a limp rag, stunned beyond even the worst of what he’d inflicted upon Rota.

Louder than they had been all night, a sudden shock comes over the crowd as they watch the betting favourite go unconscious, lights knocked out like law enforcement putting an end to a good night. For those with money behind Jimmy, they stand in a palpable hush out of shock whilst those gambling in the less-favourable corner do much the same- only out of awe instead of ghastly surprise.

Falling onto his backside with both hands wiping at his face, Rota feels the effects of a car crash take over his head as each punch had landed where they’d intended, his inability to make it back to his feet not being of the referee’s interest, however. With his eyes wide open and hands sprawled out at either side of his body, Jimmy lays against the canvas without movement, looking into the spotlight high above the mat that he’s rendered entirely immobilised atop.

“ONE!” the referee proclaims, his back turned toward the still-seated, currently-stirring, lost-in-translation Rota with favour focused on the man who shows no signs of getting back up. “TWO!” he proceeds to bark, having watched the tides of the bout shift with such a jerk that even the most violent of whiplashes wouldn’t depict it accurately.

“THREE!” the well-dressed official exclaims, the count that he makes still yet to be noticed by the cobweb-headed brute seated behind him, still trying to gather his bearings of just where he is. “Get the hell up, Jim!” Jesse barks as the official makes it to the next count, hands wrapping around the back of another audience member’s seat as he leans forward, trying to howl loud enough for his friend to hear.

“FIVE!” the referee follows further, still seeing no sign of life from the fighter that remains looking into the heavens, the count finally being taken notice of by Rota- who suddenly looks forward to view the success of his last-ditch resort. “Stay the fuck down, kid” Kenny mutters beneath his breath, standing from his seat with eyes fully centred upon the downed brawler, watching as his figure appears to have frozen in the middle of making snow angels.

“SIX!” the official proclaims, finally watching the subject of his count blind for the first time since being laid out, waiting for the man to make it back to both feet with the little time that remains. “SEVEN!” the next count proclaims, forcing the somewhat-present Jimmy to begin turning over and onto his side, looking to push himself off the ground as quickly as he can. “EIGHT!” the official barks, watching as the downed man falls back to his stomach from one knee, trying too quickly to return to his feet.

Reaching out in front of him all the same, Rota slowly succeeds in trying to get up to one knee, which he gradually uses to bring himself back to a standing position. “NINE!” the referee finally counts, watching Jimmy spin around on shaky legs, having forced himself back to a stand as he turns to face his fellow combatant, physically able to continue the bout whilst mentally trying to find his way back to the fight.

Clapping his hands together to the sound of a crowd’s applause, the referee kills the count and determines both men to be capable of carrying on, allowing them to resume their competition in search of a conclusive end. Still struggling to process his surroundings, Rota begins stepping forward on instinct, watching as Jimmy tries to match each approaching march with a retreat, hoping to buy time that he can use to gather himself accordingly.

Not too keen on throwing punches just yet, the pummelled fighter metaphorically assumes control of the wheel without truly knowing how to drive, stepping forward with hopes of ending the fight without being comfortable enough in his position within the brawl to fully go onto offence. “He doesn’t know where he is, Jim! Get your shit together, you damn prick!” Jesse proclaims, trying to cut through the audience and insult his friend into properly adjusting course.

Quickly pulling in one short breath after another before throwing it out of his lungs with force, Jimmy steadies his every movement and carries himself forward, looking into the eyes of his adversary to see a slight, drifting-off gaze within them. “Just go win” he mutters to himself whilst narrowing his eyes, tightening the wrapping of his fingers as they ball into a readied fist, his legs regaining their strength whilst advanced upon.

Throwing a quick jab forward without much presence of mind, Rota seals the bout’s fate by opening himself up to the renewed barrage that there’s no coming back from the second time around. Firing lefts and right with reckless abandon, Jimmy gets the muscular brute onto sea legs as the physically-superior foe begins stepping backward, losing his footing just before losing his last ounces of defence.

Winning the test of endurance he’d hoped to bring the fight down to, Jimmy lays in one shot after another before sending a message to Kenny and a receipt back to his mercenary. Unable to protect himself, Rota eats each shot before his opponent’s pulled arm fires upward just as his own had, the well-built obstacle thrown in his adversary’s path eating an uppercut of his own that closes the bout off.

Rocked enough for his head to just cock back and not return to level, Rota’s eyes take toward the ceiling and keep them there as his body falls backward, landing into the pit as Jimmy steps past him- already knowing he’s had the fight won. “THE BASTARD IS NEXT!” the Mercer Arena-bound brawler exclaims to the emotionally beside-themselves audience, defiantly guaranteeing them the match they’ve waited months for as the referee counts.

“ONE! TWO! THREE!” Rota finds himself subjected to, eyes closed and consciousness thoroughly snuffed out in such a way that the count isn’t even heard by the man. “FOUR! FIVE! SIX!” the following numbers are howelled, prompting Wilbur and Norman to shake hands with great pleasure as they solidify their biggest bout to date- having made a beautiful payday from this evening’s event in the process.

“SEVEN! EIGHT! NINE!” the referee carries on whilst Jimmy taunts to the crowd, his friends collectively cheering as they anxiously wait for the official to seal the deal and deliver their pal a conclusive victory. Already having made his peace with what he’d just witnessed, Kenny seethes whilst Arthur and Willard shout unpleasant remarks to their nemesis, waiting to hear the final digit being proclaimed for the audience to further lose their minds over.

“TEN!” the official declares with absolutely no difference in reaction from Rota between the first and final proclamation, sending the crowd into a frenzy. The calmest of the bunch, Kenny stares at his now-guaranteed opponent for the end of November with an outright furious expression. “Ladies and gentlemen, your winner... Jimmy Elliott!” the announcer declares whilst the victor throws his arms out at either side with the battle cry of triumph, having done what he’d come to with sights on finishing the job.

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“You’re pulling my leg...” Jimmy responds with wide eyes of shock, unable to comprehend the winner’s purse that finds its way from his employer’s hand and to his own. “Seven thousand dollars” Wilbur reassures, wrapping both hands around the top of his cane whilst pressing its base into the cement ground of the purposefully boring and uninspiring locker room, “you drew the crowd, you picked up the win, and you did what you were supposed to. You’ve earned it.”

“Does that mean I get to fight Arthur when Jimmy takes on Kenny?” Jesse wonders aloud, wanting to guarantee his own future whilst the opportunity presents itself. “Yes, you’ll get Arthur on the same night” Wilbur replies, carrying on the conversation whilst Norman sits in the corner with a cup of water in his hand, “but what’s more important is that we’re selling out an arena event.”

“It was originally supposed to be sixty nine hundred, but we threw in an extra bonus as a ‘thank you’” Norman comments, nodding his head toward the paper check in their fighter’s hand, “you proved to be dependable. You kept our arena show in line and we figured it’d be good to show you a little appreciation for-”

Kept from speaking by the sound of a knock at the door, Norman’s words evade him just as the rest of the room’s do, their faces finding surprise at the room’s entrance. “I don’t mean to interrupt” Kenny remarks, letting himself into the room without friends following behind him, approaching empty handed and in good faith.

“And yet, you do” Norman coldly responds, prompting the grey-haired fighter to look toward his direction in the corner of the room, the focus being paid for a very short period of time. “What do you want?” Jimmy asks aloud, even more of a callous tone taken than the wealthy businessman’s. “To congratulate you” Kenny answers honestly, slowly walking further into the room knowing how hostile the situation at hand can be, “you earned the win. I can’t deny that.”

Leaving the man hanging, Jimmy opts not to respond to the man’s credit, watching as his slow approach carries on, following the lead of his words in not yet having concluded. “I don’t have a problem with you, kid. I know you’ve got an issue with me and I accept that” Kenny continues on, appearing to have entered the domain of his enemy in the name of clearing the air beyond the thick layer of fog that appears to overwhelm it.

“I want to apologise for getting Stan hurt. I want to apologise for making this mess” the Silver Wolf explains further, shrugging as his steps come to an end just a short distance from his opponent in a month and a half’s time. “I just really hope that you and I have a fair and clean fight in a few weeks. Not something cruel and purposefully brutal, but respectable” he concludes, extending a show of the same respect in the handshake he offers to his younger adversary, “may the better man win.”

Provoked into a smirk as he hangs his head, the recently-showered brawler tries to prevent himself from laughing as he sits with his thoughts for a moment, allowed to do so in silence whilst the rest of the room stands around and watches. Closing the distance between himself and the man he’ll fight as desired in a few weeks, Jimmy stares at the still-outstretched hand for a second before looking Kenny in the eyes, speaking in a civilised and composed manner.

“I’m going to destroy you” the younger man responds with a chipper visage, watching as the disappointment in Kenny’s face takes shape, his eyelids pressing together and head lowering just as his hand does. “I’m going to leave you broken. I’m going to embarrass you in front of everyone that’s worth a damn. I’m going to end you” Jimmy concludes, watching as the man’s disgruntled face lifts to look him in the eyes, “and Kenny, when I’m done with you, there will be nothing left.”

Pressing his lips together, the grey-haired archenemy simmers with the man’s comment whilst remaining unmoved, eyes taking back toward his younger contemporary with genuine despondency. “I really wish that you didn’t say that” Kenny confesses, shaking his head gingerly before stepping backward, retreating the way in which he’d entered with the same sorrowful expression, “congrats again.”

Turning around as he re-enters the corridor, Kenny vanishes around the corner and wanders off, heading in the direction of wherever his feet care to take him whilst silence continues to permeate the locker room in his aftermath. Keeping to himself, Norman lets his eyes fall to the cup in his hand whilst Wilbur takes his eyes to the corner of his face, looking at Jimmy just as the man’s friends do.

Not speaking, the victorious man feels the weight of anticipation come over him just as it had prior to tonight’s fight, overwhelming any ounce of jubilation that he can carry toward his triumph. With great intent, Jimmy instead stares at the locker room’s entrance whilst settling with the results of this evening’s battle, his knuckles bruised and face bloodied from it, but his heart beats and breaths steady knowing that he’s finally at peace with the guarantee of revenge now promised.

== Seattle Noir ==