Showmare

An audible crack rang though the arena, as Trixie's opponent fell to the ground, jaw broken. Cheers and hoof-stomping soon followed, while she took position over his body, pinning him. She looked around, grinning triumphantly at the audience.

“Well, folks!” she shouted, amplifying her voice with magic. “Does this one live, or shall the Great and Powerful Trixie add another body to her count?”

Mixed replies came out, some begging for his life, others thirsty for blood. A disturbingly satisfied smile spread across Trixie's face, as she looked over her opponent. A deep, dirt brown earth stallion, with a coal black mane, messy from the fight. Then she looked him in the eye. There she saw a look she became all too familiar with. Wide eyes with small, dilated pupils. Fear. His breath was ragged, and short, while sweat matted down his coat.

Trixie enjoyed these moments, a little too much if you asked her. Yet, it invigorated her. These points, where she truly felt great and powerful. Where she held the choice and power of death. This time she decided on mercy.

“Trixie has seen this colt's talent, and it has impressed her.” Her two broken ribs, which he skillfully administered, agreed with her sentiment. “She will let him live, in the hopes that he might prove a challenge in the future!”

The audience met this decision with mixed replies, which was expected. Every choice became controversy, but that did not deter Trixie. Her choice was her choice. Amidst the random boos and whoops of the crowd, she stepped off of the stallion that was her opponent. At this point, he passed out. Whether from joy, relief, or stress was anybody's guess. It didn't matter, not to Trixie. She would most likely never see him again. By the time he would get the chance to rematch her, some other opponent would probably kill him. It's the way things worked in the arena.

And so she took her leave, exiting through the large door in the side of the fight pit. She only paused at the door to administer first aid to herself, using her magic to make the basic repairs. The other repairs could be worried about later. For now she just wanted to get in a good rest. The noisy audience became a small buzz as she traveled the corridor to the fighter's lounge. About halfway down, was someone she would rather not meet.

“Nice job, kiddo.” said a brown stallion, wearing an expensive suit that looked out of place in the underground tunnel. His mane was pulled back in that style only ponies with dirty money seemed to favor. Three moneybags were visible on his flank, ambiguous, and yet, so accurate.

“Filthy.” Trixie said, choosing to walk on by.

“Please, call me Rich.” Filthy Rich said, flashing his signature greasy smile.

“Trixie will call you by the name that fits you better, Filthy.” She kept going, not wanting the conversation to continue on.

Filthy didn't share that sentiment, as he fell in step with the mare. “Oh, come now. Can't we ever play nice?” he mock pleaded, still showing that smile. “This partnership has turned out fairly well, don't you think?”

“Anything would be better than the last stint you set Trixie up to.” she replied, shivering at the memories.

“That was just an experiment.” he said. “I needed to find out how to best use your talents.”

Trixie stopped, now at the door to the lounge. “And you thought a cat-house would be the best place to start?” Resentment was laced throughout Trixie's voice.

“Illusion magic is a much sought out commodity in the sex business, and you are quite the illusionist.”

“Trixie knows. She enjoyed watching that perverted bastard suffer at her illusions.”

Filthy coughed, remembering very vividly that night. It had cost him one of his long-standing customers. “Yes. Well at least we found something suitable for you. Who knew underground fighting would be your flavor?”

“Trixie did. She had been training for months after her performance in Ponyville.”

“Oh, I know. I found you beating the living daylights out of a timberwolf, remember? Quite impressive, really.”

“Then why did you not send Trixie to the arena in the first place?”

“Business first, and personal ideas second. It's how I've always done things.”

“Trixie's noticed.” At this, she turned into the lounge, just wanting to rest. Filthy followed closely behind, probably stealing looks at her flanks, as far as she knew. The lounge was simple. Two chairs and a couch, facing a table between them all. A mini-fridge was in the corner, with a microwave on top. Food had to be supplied by the fighters themselves, something Trixie wasn't going to do.

For now, she opted for the couch, knowing it would be good to relax on. Thankfully, there were no other fighters, meaning it might actually be quiet. Taking position, Trixie started to doze off, relaxing on the comfortable suede. She always wondered how such nice material was in such a nasty group of thugs. Then she remembered that the whole arena was run by sleazy business-colts like Filthy. Of course they would have the bits to throw at nice furniture.

Trixie started to feel the relaxing pull of sleep, when she was interrupted. “So,” began Filthy. “we should probably discuss your next fight.”

“You will discuss the next fight with yourself. Trixie will sleep.” she grumbled.

“Never mind, then.” he said, not too keen on disturbing a tired Trixie. “I'll just head on out then.”

“Thank you.” She said, not hiding her annoyance. She waited patiently for him to leave, knowing that rushing him would not help. After the short wait, Trixie could relax again. She tried once again to sleep, feeling the pull from earlier. Consciousness slowly faded, as well as awareness of the nearby world. Light seemed to slowly disappear. Sound, of the little that could be heard, softened. Eventually, she felt her subconscious self on the edge of the cliff know as sleep. Just one leap and...

“Hey!”

'Oh, come on!!' ran through Trixie's head. Groggily, she looked at the door, where the noise had come from. There stood her most recent opponent, his eyes fixed on her in a cold stare. His icy blue irises seemed to punctuate the intensity. His injuries seemed to have been cured from the previous fight. He was most likely fixed up by the medic unicorns as soon as possible.

Trixie decided to get a good hard look at him, curious as to why he had actually posed a threat to her. He was smaller than most of her opponents, not really holding the size that would seem threatening. It was when she focused on his build that she noticed. His muscles were lean, and focused. Where her other opponents were bulky powerhouses, he seemed refined. His body was built for making each hit accurate and worthwhile. If combined with good form, he could become a very deadly weapon. Thankfully, he wasn't perfectly in tune, and Trixie seemed to have much more experience under her belt.

Though, that cold look seemed to be deadly by itself. “What was that back there?” he said, sounding annoyed.

“The fight? Trixie won. She wiped your sorry flank across that floor. That's what happened.” She hated these types. The ones that act like a loss should have been their win.

“No, no no!” he said, accentuating each no louder. “Why did you let me live? I lost. The loser dies. That's how it works.”

Ooookay. That one's actually new. Nobody ever expressed disappointment in living before. “Actually, winner chooses. And seeing as Trixie won, she got to choose. And she chose for you to live. She had no reason to kill you. Besides, how could she bring herself to kill such a handsome face?” Trixie was known for two things in the arena. Ruthlessness, and a flirtatious attitude. The latter caught many an opponent off guard.

Apparently though, it did not faze this one. His cold gaze did not change. “I was prepared to die. You should have killed me.”

“Oh, please. You were shaking like a foal in front of a manticore. Besides, I seem to remember you passing out at the end. Prepared to die, my hoof.”

The stallion snorted, probably out of frustration. It was hard to guess with this one. “Of course I was scared, but fear does not control me. I was prepared none the less.”

“Ugh.” Trixie said, face-hoofing. “Then how about Trixie kills you now, seeing how prepared you are.”

“No!” he barked. “Your chance is up. I'm alive, that will not change. If you're going to kill me, then do so in the arena.”

“Fine then. How about this, handsome? Don't die, and maybe you can get a rematch. Then, Trixie will kill you. Though, it seems like such a waste.” she said, showing an enticing smile.

The stallion nodded, not changing that cold look, and turned himself to exit. Right before he disappeared, his head swiveled around to face her. “If we rematch, I will not lose a second time.” With that, he was gone.

Trixie harrumphed, glad there were no more distractions. Laying her head back down, she finally fell in to the abyss known as sleep.

Author's Note

Be ruthless. If you find something wrong with the story, tell me. I would like to know how to improve for future endeavors.