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She had been lying supine upon the practice grounds when her master came to retrieve her. Bing-Bing had stared idly at his shoes, so shiny in the wan light, and had bared her teeth at them like an insolent dog whilst ignoring his demands for her to rise. Another day, another fight. Her ribs were still bruised from her fight with Ferrao two nights before, though she supposed -- and hoped -- that his shoulder continued to smart after she had dislocated it with a dropped heel. She had never been made to fight with so little preparation, so little rest between matches. For once her master understood her impertinence, why she dragged her feet. Bing-Bing was irritated. She was tired. She wanted nothing more than to dig her claws into her master's eyes, roll over, and sleep.

"Our newest shipment is particularly stubborn, my dear," he had said, stroking her head when she lifted it. Movements thus made her look both reptilian and dog-like. She did not answer.

"We need someone to break them, at least one of them. They came in a set, a mixed bag, if you will. If one is brought down, the others will follow like ducks in a line." He stroked her jaw with misplaced affection, and her eyes, beetle-black, hid her revulsion.

"So you want her to fight them?" she rasped, sitting up to move away from her master's hand.

"Of course. You may be tired, but this will be a cake walk for you, my dear."

As tradition dictated, her metal shackles were replaced with thick, ropey cords, itchy cuffs looped around her wrists and ankles like bangles. They were in vogue this season, after an accident the year prior that had involved her thick metal chains and some poor attendant's neck. With a rope tied loosely around her own, she was lead to the underground, her gauzy dress -- a mockery of civility and class -- whispering around her heavy, creeping steps.

There were rooms behind that cement wall, tiny stuffy closets meant for prepping one's charge. The rooms were Spartan at best, the floor dusty and beaten to a wavering flatness, two wooden benches pegged into the ground to provide the most uncomfortable seating in the hazy room. Drop-down ingotted doors separated them from the ring, though it was from the ring that light was provided; it snuck through the bars to fall like timber across the otherwise dark room.

Bing-Bing was stripped of her dress (modesty was long since forgotten) and checked, her healing wounds probed and dressed before she was pulled into a half-body suit that flattened her breasts and clung tight to her body, allowing movement of both her legs and arms. Her mind was elsewhere as the administrations took place, eyes staring into the grit beneath her clawed toes, focusing on the fight at hand. She could hear the thud of footsteps above her, the muffled voices, excitement as palpable as the rope she stroked in her hands. Spectator enthusiasm played across her skin, their vicarious frenzy bleeding into her veins and lending her much needed adrenaline.

A smile split her face, lined it with needle-like fangs. Bing-Bing glanced through the barred door keeping her from that familiar ring, inciting her blood to fire. If only she could see her opponent from here.

While Poke was hastily tossed into the ring, Bing-Bing was still lagging behind. Her door had been opened, light playing across the shiny black scales on her back, the only thing not cast in shadow was her thick, stumpy tail; it flicked, curled. Her dewclaws twitched with anticipation.

"Do not kill or maim the product, Bing-Bing. Break without physically breaking, all right? Show some self-control for once." Her lead was removed, thick fingers tugging at the scratchy ropes until they loosed and fell. The skin beneath was pink and raw, scales flaking hither and thither. Ointment was rubbed into her skin-- roughly done-- and wraps were fastened around her forearms.

"This isn't a fight to the death. First three falls, first blood. That's it."

"You should have used Ferrao. He does not take anything seriously," she commented dryly. She received a smack in the mouth for her insolence; Bing-Bing jerked away with a hiss.

"I do not keep you for your suggestions. Now get out there."

Tossing her head proudly (sucking her lower lip in to relieve the sting of his hand), the reptilian woman finally turned and walked into the ring, hands curled loosely at her sides. She paid no heed to Poke, eyes trailing the stomping crowd, whose many faces blended together like a thumbed oil painting. She sneered at them, ignoring her introduction and the swell of the crowd -- she was their champion, the money in their pocket. Humans were disgusting creatures.

Her gaze finally dropped to her opponent, and she balked in indignation. They dare insult her to fight this tiny slip of a girl? Her pale brow furrowed, nose curling-- there was not much to break here.

"This is a waste of energy," she uttered, eyes flicking back towards the door she came out of. Not even adopting a fighting stance, she held out two fingers and beckoned Poke forward.

"Come," she said boredly. "She has better things to do and would like to get this over with so she can go back to lying on the floor like you shall soon enough."

Bing-Bing regarded Poke with a curl of her upper lip, clearly displeased with this turn of events. He wanted her spirit broken, she could see that now. Though her body thrummed with barely contained energy, the reptilian slave kept still, the only life coming from the constant spark in her black, black eyes.

"She is not for her entertainment indeed," she parroted softly. Bing-Bing jerked her chin at the spectators surrounding them, canting her head far to the side as though she sided with those humans that hooted and hollered and screamed from the sidelines. "She is for their entertainment. Do not be difficult."

She hissed with a flick of her black tongue, dropping her head as she paced around Poke -- giving her a wide berth -- like an agitated animal. How best to breach this personal space she had between them. As proud as she was, she knew not to underestimate this girl, not as much as she was. She was thrown into the ring for a reason, after all. Just what kind of set had she come from?

Without further warning, Bing-Bing darted forward with an uncanny speed, throwing her hand into Poke's face as if to strike, though she never connected-- no, a blink later and she was supporting herself on the ground, legs coming up in a flash to use those vicious clawed feet of hers in hopes of striking Poke in the face.