7 Jul 2011

Black Gloves

Deep inside the belly of the Minmatar Mining Mineral Reserve in Hek solar system lies a club frequented by some of New Eden's most rotten individuals and cast-offs. Drunken workers waiting for the next shift in alcoholic stupor, the same clothes stuck to their backs from weeks long gone. Right through to missing crew members, nutcases, thieves, drug pushers, skinheads, punks, whores, fetishists and other lost souls - all drawn to the golden-brown liquids and what spawns from the demonic aftershocks of the devil's cup.

Cold rusted steel is the d├ęcor, the only heat present coming from the bodies of those inside and the low-slung orange lamps that glow hesitantly from above. The place has a sinister feel to it and those who stray into the darkness by accident always perform a sharp turn and head straight back for the exit, no doubt with that feeling of fear creeping down their spine. No music is played in the bar either, chatter fills the air as many tales are told and dirty deals struck.

The Ingot is not your typical station-side bar and club. Over by the far side of the room a dark-grey curtain hides away the extension room. Behind the curtain a narrow corridor leads to an old boiler room where some hundred or so people have gathered in what has become known to Hek's residents as the Black Gloves Club, an exclusive makeshift arena where those who wish to let off some steam meet up and do just that - 1v1. A mechanical terror of a small modified gatling autocannon looks down on those who are trying to gain entry from the corridor into the ring area, occasionally spooling up as if ready to kick into life at the first sign of any real trouble.

This evening a group of about thirty or so outlaws all clad in black are calling the shots, bodies jostle as money is exchanged, pistols and even spaceships offered as payments pending for the upcoming fight. Cutmen and wannabe coaches mingle with the crowd as words of knowledge are shared. The challengers are expectant, excitement fills the air as the carnival is about to begin.

A giant of a man, an Amarrian slugger with a cold look about him and a chiselled jaw stoops under the ropes and stands gamely in the ring as a flurry of activity around ringside begins to take shape. The man is a known journeyman fighter in the circuit. One of the outlaws tosses in a pair of gloves and the man is helped into his weapons by one of the 'coaches'. The other outlaws give a nod to the back of the room and from the shadows of the crowd steps one bad looking and angry Brutor, his lip pierced by a spike of metal and sporting a scar clearly visible on the side of his face like a slash from a slaver hound.

More money is being bandied around as more and more people from the main bar area begin filtering through as word of the next fight spreads. The Brutor, black gloved and bare chested, torn combat trousers and sports boots steps into the ring as the outlaws cheer on their gang mate. He stands much smaller than his opponent but what he lacks in height he makes up for in width, 5 foot 11 high and seemingly five-eleven wide, a back built from bricks and arms the size of jackhammers.

The referee, decked out in what looks like an old faded CONCORD officer's uniform with the badges torn away tosses a can into the ring and this signals the start of the fight.

Let the thunder and lightning sing, the Amarrian swings wildly at the Brutor in the middle, hoping to land a lucky shot. The man of Minmatar blood counters this with an in close barrage of intense flurries, an uppercut lands firmly, quickly followed by a smashing right hook, as the slaver reels back another blow is landed, a sharp jab to the side of the head strikes a glancing blow. The Amarrian comes back as he takes a shot low to the ribs, the crowd cheer as he wobbles slightly before planting his own jab, but the outlaw strikes back with another quick fusion combo that shakes the Amarrian to the core as another punch lands sweetly.

The aggression is clear and a fight scheduled for 10 rounds is about to end not long after it started as a sweet big bomb lands and the hulking challenger bounces off the ropes as the crack of his nose depleting like a spent uranium rod echoes about the hall. The big man wobbles, he's hit by blow, after blow, and the last blow, another uppercut, is too much. The referee stops the fight and Miura Bull is victorious, his early career in the low-security boxing circuit certainly helping him on this occasion.

As the outlaws head to the bar counting their winnings and the crowds begin to follow suit, a lone janitor begins the task of mopping up the devout blood that has spattered the canvas.


Miura Bull wears Brutor Tribe Issue Black Boxing Gloves (Rebel Edition)



  1. Dude what is going on in your head. :) This is great stuff man.

  2. Mate .... I've not even scratched the surface yet.



  3. Good read. it's nice to see someone put some effort into their blog +1

  4. Holy crap! Let's hope Miura doesn't decide to "whip the Rebels into shape"! Good stuff mate.