Gunstep (Convict Colosseum / Umamusume)

[AntXHuman333]

"I don't care."


Pistol Foot Pete flared his nostrils at the other finalist's words.


"You're one selfish sum'bitch, y'know that?"


"Would you kill for it?"


He paused at the question.


"…huh?"


"Would you be willing to kill to win this tournament…?"


Pete tilted his head.


"Would I kill someone…to go free?"


El Cucaracho held his breath…


"…I ain't that desperate. What's a few years in the can 'pared to a lifetime bein' dead?"


…then clenched his fist.


"…dunno if I phrased that right, but y'get my point. Ain't no prize worth a human life…what I'd be willin' ta do to not lose a fight, though…?"


"Now that's a different question. I've always wondered that myself…"


Thirty-eight states, Pete remembered. Thirty-eight wins…and not one moment where I was challenged…


"…how would I feel in that moment? How would I-"

---

*BANG* *BANG* *BANG*


Like thunder, blows rained down on their bodies. El Cucaracho's eyes were glazed over, his body moving by instinct alone. Pete struck and struck with kicks like lightning, but only one in ten hits striking, despite his speed. But when they did, the tank of a man in front of him was blown back, a force greater than a rifle's slamming into his flesh and bones.


*WHOOSH*


A downward hammer fist flew from the boogeyman of North America. In that split millisecond…


*CRASH*


…Pete "checked" the blow with his left leg, the toughest part of his femur trading with it.


Under normal circumstances, El Cucaracho, the man unable to die, would be the one whose hand had broken, leaving both of his arms useless.


But throughout this battle…


…no way…!


…every other convict knew…


…damn it…!


…that Pete would be the one taking the most damage.


*CRACK*


Pain surged through his leg.


Shit…!


He staggered back, almost laying his weight on it.


…not good!


A "clean break" through his femur.


Before he could adjust his strategy, the beast in front of him lunged, landing on top of his body.


"AGH!"


Both of them slammed into the ground, locked in the tournament's last exchange.


"Ya ever spend so long lookin' fer somethin'…that ya give up hope of ever findin' it?"


Cucaracho's hand held Pete's neck, crushing him with a grip like a vice. In one split second, he would be able to kill Pete.


"Fight me, Pete."


Pete had willed his broken leg around Cucaracho's neck, his right hand held onto it.


"I DON'T WANNA FIGHT YOU LIKE THIS!"


Not…not when you're not at your strongest…


"Ngh…!"


The cowboy held the tranquilizer dart to his neck, just as El Cucaracho desperately rampaged in pursuit of death.


Time slowed.


"Please…"


Pete had a free leg, under El Cucaracho's head. Even with a broken bone, he could…


"Guess I'm a pretty selfish individual myself."


He shot it upwards, into his opponent's neck.


"PETE, I'M BEGGING YOU, PLEA-!!!!!"


Two sickening crunches silenced the colosseum.


Both of the fighters' bodies went limp.

---

"…"


Pete glanced at the window from his seat.


…no poppies.


"…"


Just a buncha trimmed grass.


Behind him, a man sighed.


"…would you like your luncheon, Pete? The chef has prepared a magnificent Beef Wellington today."


He glanced back down at his legs.


"…doctors said it was tetrapeligia, Peter."


"…"


His caretaker quietly nodded.


"…please let me know if you desire a different meal, good sir."


Behind his wheelchair, the door shut.


"Paralysis from the neck down, in layman's terms."


"…damn it…"


"He'll never fight again, I'm afraid."


His mind went back to the fight.


…incredible…


It was the only word he could use to describe the experience.


His mind went back to his previous opponents.


The Pure One…hope I beat some sense into 'em.


Firecracker, toughest bones 'fore I met him. Must've been fighting all his life.


The Scourge of British Columbia. Damn sorry for the killer.


Florida Man. Drownin' in vices, the only way he could fight me…


A tear fell from his eye.


"Cheer up, son! You won! You're free, filthy rich, and have every doctor in the United States at your service!"


Forgot ta mention that they can't fix…"this", huh…?


The door behind the former fighter opened.


"Your Wellington, sir."


He was wheeled to the dining table shortly, a TV in front of hi playing highlights from so-called "Kengan Matches" in Japan.


That lil' joy left for me…


As the food was placed in his mouth, Pete felt a certain emptiness.


…El Cucaracho died 'cause of me…


"…"


"Ain't no prize worth a human life."


…or was I just foolin' myself?


For he knew that he had reached a height he would never climb to again.

---

On his bed, Pete stared into the mural painted onto the master bedroom's ceiling.


Huh…some general in blue, ridin' his horse.


He yawned.


…jealous of the sum'bitch…


As his eyes, fluttered, his mind went back to his battle a year prior.


Blood. Sweat. A tear.


"…if you could do it all over again…would you…?"


"…"


Reluctantly, he nodded.


Just…as a horse runs…


…I kick.


As he drifted off, Pete swore he saw the general's horse nodding back at him.

 

[SpookedCommentator]

Pete about to show Umamusume on how to really use their legs.

 

[AntXHuman333]

"Stop holding back already."


Pete kept the straw hat on his head from flying off mid-fight. "Thanks, I think…but I ain't sure whatcha mean."


"Punches, elbows, throws, all of it…"


"…stop limiting yourself to kicks and come at me with everything you've got."


The cowboy raised an eyebrow.


"…uh, I think there's been a misunderstandin' here…if I thought a punch would win, I'd definitely throw it. But I ain't thrown one in…psssh, almost 20 years? Doubt it'd do me any good, 'specially against someone like you."


The arena went silent as El Cucaracho went still.


"…"


"…referee…"


"…I forfe-"


*CRACK*


A kick slammed into his jaw, preventing the mountain of a man from finishing his resignation.


"…I for-"


*CRACK*


Another kick, slamming his jaw shut.


"I-"


El Cucaracho felt the kick coming. He held a hand out to catch it.


*CRACK*


Pete weaved around, shutting him up regardless.


"I for-"


*CRACK*


"…what are you doing…?"


Pete smirked. "Hm? What's a matter? Cat got your to-?"


He stopped as soon as he realized what he was doing.


"…"


Wait…what am I doing…?


Wasn't this fight supposed to be different?


Yet, here I am, turnin' it into some sort of game again…just to keep myself entertained.


He clenched his fist.


"Y'know what…?"


"Just go 'head 'n' forfeit. Probably overestimated you anyways…dunno why I still get my hopes up."


"I'm sick 'n' tired of bein' disappointed."


And like that, Pete began to walk away.


"…"


The audience went silent.


The referee went silent.


The organizers went silent.


The end of the tournament…would be by resign-


*CRACK*


Pete caught El Cucaracho's kick with a check just before he left his range.


"Hmm?"


The two met eyes for a moment.


"What happened, ya change yer mind?"


Pete's opponent smiled, blood trickling down his face.


"No. You said something…I found funny."


Both tensed their muscles at the exact same moment.


"Let's just see who ends up disappointing who."

---

It smelled strange.


Nah, not strange…just…like garbage…?


Pete opened his eyes to total darkness and the suffocating scent of trash.


"…!"


On instinct, he braced his lower body…


*BANG*


…before striking the roof of a dumpster clean off its hinges. He shot up from his bed of trash, leaping out towards an alley and landing on his feet.


"Huh…who'd've thought puttin' me in a dumpster was a good…!"


With a single look down, Pete saw something he thought he'd never see again.


"…my legs…kicked!"


There was a moment of silence under the dawn sky.


"…YEEEEEEEHAWWWW!"


He remembered his past opponents. The Pure One, Firecracker, Scourge, and Florida Man…


*CRACK*


*CRACK* *CRACK* *CRACK*


…and by muscle memory, he began to kick. Roundhouses, teeps, axes, consecutives, all against an opponent within his own mind. All until he remembered that man.


For a moment, he felt the slowness in his kicks.


Haven't done this…in a while. If we were to fight now…


He remembered eyes rolled into the back of his opponent's head, dodging strikes before he even threw them.


…I'd…


He tried a Double Barrel Roundhouse Kick on the wall next to him.


It wasn't even fast enough to make the air crack.


…lose.


"…"


With a moment of silence, Pete put his head down, the fiercest thought on his mind not even in sight.


…even if I get my legs back…


…I already peaked, ain't I?


"Oi!"


He turned back, towards a teen with a baseball bat held on his shoulder.


"Anta wa ittai dareda?"


"…'scuse me?"


The kid stopped in his tracks.


"Ā…kankōkyaku. 'Get lost. Bad place.'"


He tilted his head. "'Bad place'…? Why?"


"Koitsu…! 'Get lost! No English!'"


"But yer speakin' English right now, right?"


The wooden bat clinked against the ground.


"Koko wa wareware no ryō-!"


*CRASH*


The kid swung his bat, lighter than it had ever felt.


It hit nothing…as its front half had shattered onto the ground.


"Kid…I ain't lookin' for a fight…"


…not without someone like hi-


"Matte…'f-figh-ta'?"


Although he didn't realize it, at these words, Pete smiled.


"Yeah…it's been a while, but I guess I am."


"Sumimasen! Mōshiwake arimasen! 'S-s-sorry! V-very sorry!'"


The cowboy nodded, although still confused. "S'alright, kid. Now where-"


"'This way, fighta!'" The boy hurried back into the alley, prying open a heavy metal door. In that moment, Pete hesitated.


Well…ain't this might suspicious…?


"…"


Well, that language…from the Kengan matches, Japanese? Could find somewhere they speak English, try ta get back home…


…but when've I ever turned down a challenge?


He stepped forward, past the boy and into the building.

---

Kakeru sighed as the door to his office opened.


An entry to the exhibition matches…this late?


Guess Umas really are unpredicta…


His thoughts trailed off as he saw a man enter the room.


He had a mullet of long black hair, a plaid red shirt and a straw at atop his head. He was abnormally tall as well, most of that height coming from his legs.


…not that it would help you in this kind of tournament, American.


"B-boss! We have a fighter here!"


"Ah, it's you…does he speak Japanese?"


"No, sir."


"Er…I heard fighters were s'pposed t' come here?"


He glanced over at the man again, very clearly from the Southern parts of America.


"Yes…of course. Please, have a seat."


As the man sat down in the leather armchair, Takeru noticed the smell of garbage coming from his clothes.


The hell…!?


"Oh…sorry for the smell, woke up in a dumpster."


He held his breath before pulling a form and pen from his desk. "I-it's fine. J-just sign here."


Without another thought, the man scribbled a signature onto the paper.


Bingo.


"Alright. You have money to enter?"


The man's face dropped.


"…er…didn't bring my wallet…?"


"Alright. I can loan you some. That's…about 1 million yen for entering our organization as a potential fighter."


The American froze.


"…o-one million…?"


"Yes."


"Well…I-I think I've gotta say no to all this-"


"You signed, did you not?"


"…"


What an idiot.

---

Pete was frozen.


…one million…!?


"C-can I have…a lawyer?"


The well-dressed man at the other side of the desk snatched the contract.


"A signature is a signature. All I can say…'Pete'."


Slowly, he rose from his seat, the man's eyes darting to "the boy" and his bat.


He practically felt both their eyes widen.


"…"


"…b-boss…!"


"…"


"There won't be any evidence of our wrongdoing, Pete. You'll get charged. Go to jail. The yakuza will hunt you for the rest of your life. Do you really-!?"


He quickly held out a hand.


"Huh? You thought I was gonna fight you? Been in enough trouble with the law…and I still wanna fight, too."


Damn poppies…


"…so I don't suppose there's any way I could get a payment?"


"…"


"…I suppose there is a way. Are you familiar with the Japanese Derby?"


Pete tilted his head,


"…no, then? Well, I suppose I could lend you a few things…I just want an easy first job for you."


"Job?"


"You're going to be filming the race. With our…guidance, of course."

 

[ArsMagna1337]

"You're going to be filming the race. With our…guidance, of course."

Click to shrink...

"You thought you're going to deal drugs? Lmao. That's so over 1700s. Here's a camera. Film the Umamusume over there." - Yakuza, probably.

Jokes aside, I thought he will reincarnate into an Umamusume.

 

[SpookedCommentator]

Omg. I suddenly remember that Cameraman meme where he was keeping up with the runners to film them, that's it right?