Janet hacked out a lucrid, painful wad of blood, hands and knees holding her up tentatively from the basement floor. No one was interested to pick her up or help the young, stubborn witch, the audience slamming against the arena's fence and screaming slander and motivation. The noise humidly filled the air, sweat and blood also thick enough to taste in this dank, dark hell. This was a personal hell that Janet regularly visited. Monster and warlocks, lurkers and succubi, they all came down to this pit as allies or rivals, fighters or the crowd. Drinks were thrown around hardily, generous bottles brought out by the bartenders who were the ringleaders in this freak show. They organized fights between the few creatures in the city, the mutants and magic members in Los Angeles. Most of them were young, weak and only beginning to understand the supernatural in themselves. There were A lot who found themselves in denial, commiting suicide or murders, crimes until somebody burnt them out. Others tried to seek purpose, be it in thievery or heroism, vigilantic as it is. And many more, like Janet, just wanted to beat the pulp out of another dirtbag. But her ass was close to being kicked. Five seconds down, she started to rise, heavily breathing through the tendrils of blood. A blonde ponytail caked to her stained neck, her fists up to guard her face again. The crowd roared in excitement--this bitch was masochistic. "Is her opponent going to finish the job?" the voice boomed over the loudspeaker. Under the tinged lights, Janet kept her stance low and hands defensive. Her own purple tanktop was stained from her opponent, the witch's knives to the wayside now. All she had left was what little energy burst could be thrown at the person, and what strength prevailed in hand-to-hand combat.