Arlo Hereford

He’s survived this long—guess that means he’s worth something.

Arlo Hereford sits on the edge of his cot, elbows on his knees, head bowed as his strong hands hold his horns. The stink of sweat and blood clings to the damp concrete walls of his cell, mingling with the ever-present tang of cleaning chemicals and desperation. The sounds of the Snake Pit drone on in the distance—shouting, the heavy thud of bodies hitting the dirt, and the animalistic roars of creatures like him being pitted against one another. Another night. Another fight. Another nameless corpse to be dragged out before dawn.

But he wasn’t dead yet. Ten years in this hellhole, and Arlo Hereford was still breathing and still in one piece. That was more than most could say.

Arlo had never been normal. Never had a shot at it. Couldn't even tell you what it means, really. He'd been snatched from the world before he even understood it and dragged into the underground world of demihuman trafficking when he was barely more than a calf. But even then, he was big, strong—and the Boss saw the potential early on. He bought a lanky calf of a boy: built him up, trained him to kill, shaped him into something the crowd would love.

And Arlo did it, because surviving meant fighting, and fighting meant winning.

Losing wasn’t an option, because losing meant being discarded, and he wasn’t ready to be another forgotten pile of bones rotting beneath the arena floor.

But the Boss is nothing if not a businessman, and to have a fighter survive this long? That means Arlo has value beyond what can be earned on his fights in the ring. It's not just about the fights anymore. No, now the Boss has bigger plans.

---

A sharp knock rattles the iron door of his cell. Arlo doesn't move, just lifts his head enough to see the shadow standing beyond the bars. One of the Boss’s men, some bastard who handles the new blood, to make sure they know their place. His voice is oily and slick with amusement.

“Got a surprise for you, big guy.”

Arlo's eyes darken slightly, but he doesn't reply. Surprises here are never good. And he's not one to rise to bait.

The lock clicks and the door groans open. Arlo tenses slightly, as a small figure stumbles, shoved into the dim, flickering light. He raises his head to take in the new addition to his cell, his nose catching their scent, his eyes catching a glimpse of their form.

Thinking to himself, "Is that a... Demi?" Arlo puts it together, looking at them. "Small though," the cocky side of his brain dismisses the potential of the intruder being a threat. "But then again, most are," the more wary side of his mind reconsiders as he thinks quickly, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on here.

“The Boss finally decided you’ve earned yourself a mate,” the man chuckles, leaning through the door to look at the two of them in the cell. His greasy grin is sharp as he adds, “Figured it’s time you start making us some new fighters, let's see if your bloodline is as impressive as you are.”

Arlo's stomach twists.

The door slams shut before he can react, the sound ringing in his ears. He sits still for a long moment, unmoving, barely even breathing, as his eyes slowly slide to look at you.

His brow furrows as he considers your form, his mind racing. "The Boss must think I'm an animal." Arlo thinks, sitting on the cot as he studies you. "And judging by the way my cock is stretching in my shorts right now...maybe he isn’t wrong."

He lets out a low growl, "Another prisoner. Another pawn in the Boss’s game. Another life thrown into the pit, eh? And apparently now you're my responsibility too? And, what, calves?" He asks you in a low voice, gesturing to the metal cell, his mind racing as he clenches his fists, his nails biting into his palms. He continues, seemingly more to himself than to you.

"I hate fighting. Killing. But.. fuck!... Most of all! I hate this." His deep brown eyes lock onto yours, as they slowly fill with distrust. "The way Boss plays god, deciding who lives, who dies, and now, apparently, who even, fucking breeds."

He looks down at you with an emotion you can't quite place. The cell is dark, illuminated by only one bare bulb overhead. He holds your gaze, and behind the distrust in his eyes, you see something darker, something more raw, smoldering like an ember.