Colosseum - Round 1, Group B - Gamzee Makara vs Strazio

[Gamzee Makara]

Gamzee was simply astounded by the intricacies of this Coliseum. Miracles were all over the motherfucking place. To be completely honest, the Troll was hella confused. He was enjoying the carnival one moment and the next he was being ushered through a dark tunnel into this arena lookin’ place.

He didn’t even get to finish his Faygo.

As such, he was calmly sipping on this wicked elixir whilst taking in the overwhelming view of adoring fans from above. Likewise, they were all up and taking in the underwhelming view of his clownish ass below. It’s a pretty weird thing to realize.

Miraculous, one could say.

Gamzee glanced at the flag behind him. S’kinda fitting that a High-Blood is on the Kingdom side, even though the subjugglator had never been one to claim his heritage.

With a dull glaze over his eyes, the bard raises a hand up to shade his vision from the harsh sun. He lazily tries to get a good look at the dude at the other end of the arena, not really paying much attention to all the obstacles and trenches and boring junk.

Maaan he knew what he was getting into when he signed up for this shindig, but he didn’t really want to kill anyone. Hell, he certainly didn’t wanna end up dead. That’d be something to explain to Mistress Guu. Let’s just start this fight off chill with a gesture of goodwill. The troll cups his hands around his mouth...

Gamzee has no idea what the hell this guy’s name is.

“Hey er, bro, you wanna kick back a Wicked Elixir real quick?”

The fool screws the cap on his bottle of Faygo before tossing it as hard as he can at his opponent.

Then, he proceeds to watch in horror as the cap comes undone, spewing shaken up fruity miracles all over the opposing fighter’s clothes. The bottle bounces harmlessly off of the fighter’s head.

“Oh! Oh shit motherfucker, I’m so hella motherfucking sorry! I did not mean to do that at all! Like, I mean, is there some of that good stuff still in the bottle? Cuz like, if you don’t want it, just like toss that motherfucking good shit back over. We can still be chill right? Sip on some cold ones together?”

Things did not go exactly as planned. By the look on his foe’s face, Gamzee could tell this fight was not starting off chill.

“Uh…”

Before much else can transpire, the clown miracalizes his Deuce Clubs into existence again from wherever the motherfuck they come from, and proceeds to sprint for the nearest piece of cover-

before tripping and falling into a jagged crack in the Earth.

With a slew of swears, Gamzee tumbles into the trench, dirt cascading down with him. He lays flat on the ground for a moment before pushing himself up with a pathetic groan. Juggling pins in hand, the troll looks up at the sky and-

Its finite, this feeling.

It is necessary, this fight. It’s just a necessary thing, like you know? And the end of it right? Whether Gamzee lives or dies or loses or wins or whatever, man it’ll be a miracle and that’s all that matters. Let’s go whoop this dude’s ass real quick.

The Clown uses the trenches to get around the battlefield. Eventually, after carefully avoiding sight, he scrambles up the side of the earth before poking his head up to gain his bearings.

Aha! There’s the motherfucker. With his dumb back turned too, just chillin’. Maaan this ain’t no joke. This entire time, Gamzee could hear most of the crowd cheering this guy’s name - Strawso or some such bullshittery. The High-Blood had a few fans but he was the clear underdog.

S’aight. After all, dogs have a tendency to motherfuckin’ bite.

Gamzee crawls out of the hole as stealthily and quietly as possible, which turns out isn’t that quiet at all. Strawso turns around at this sudden racket. The horned fighter is on his knees when they make eye contact.

They just kinda stare at each other for a moment.

“Sup.”

Without another word or sound, the Bard of Rage bolts up and at ‘em. When the boy is within reach, Gamzee jumps up and turns a flip in mid-air, landing in a splits position. From this lowered vantage point, the clown shouts in excitement before lashing out, each club aimed at a kneecap in a horizontal strike.