AN: Please listen to the song while reading

'Now we're getting started!'

'Yep, here we go! 2 and a half hours of bullfighting - best thing is, there's none of that bloody hassle with passport control in Madrid!' As the spectators chatted, Chicero's feet skittered across the sand, running round and round. The metallic scent of the other bull's blood reached Pepelito's nostrils as he stood in his cell, unable to move. In the dark, cramped space, bombarded with awful sounds, he could smell his friend's fear and almost feel his pain.

Pepelito had expected to be first, tried to prepare as best he could.

This was much, much worse.

He had to stop them. But trapped here, what could he do?

'They've even managed to get horses down here - the horseback matadors are always my favourites!' The spectators' happy voices filled Pepelito with loathing. He shifted around desperately, scraped the floor with his feet. A slight depression lay in the ground in front of him, under the door; he could wedge the very tip of his right foot into the opening, when he pushed hard. When he rammed his foot in harder, it gave way a little.

He took a step backwards and slammed his hind leg against the back wall. He paced forwards and pressed his foot to the narrow gap. The rough metal scraped his hoof hard but he could jam the end in a bit further. He kicked the ground with his other foot, but it did nothing.

They were going to do to Chicero what they'd done to Ladron.

Rita was sobbing somewhere, almost inaudible above the baying audience. Pepelito had smelt her scent earlier; she was so sad and hungry. He'd heard her in a fight; a bad one. He kicked at the tiny depression until a speck of light appeared, jolted it until he could get his right foot all the way underneath, and part of his left. He shoved one hind foot, then the other, against the back wall, forcing the gap wider with his whole body.

'This bull's not charged once. I didn't pay £1500 to see it running away.'

'Bet he wishes he'd tried harder to stay inside,' one aficionado laughed above him. Some spectators were smoking cigars. Most were drinking heavily. Indoors, all these smells overpowered his nose, making him sneeze. A Highland bull, stolen from a farm in Scotland, gave a pitiful cry from a nearby cell.

'Now, what's the matter? This won't cause any harm,' Lord Owenstoft's soft voice mocked Chicero. Pepelito didn't like horses. But as he wiggled his foot around in the gap, he sensed this horse was ancient. He smelt its terror; like him, it didn't want to be there. The crowd booed timid, gentle Chicero as he bellowed for help, all alone.

Don't go near that horse, Pepelito told him.

'Too bad they can't use the old style fire banderillas on this coward. Doesn't anywhere still sell them?'

'Oh, Chicero, I know you're scared. But if you won't come to the horse,' Lord Owenstoft's voice was full of fake kindness. The crowd fell silent with expectation. Panting, Pepelito jammed both his feet the whole way into the gap between the door and the arena, the urge to stop them hurting his friend overriding his every instinct.

'Then, I'm afraid, we'll have to punish you.'

Pepelito pushed his hooves further forward. They now touched the sand. Don't be afraid, he told Chicero. His friend wasn't in any place to hear him. With a horrendous shriek, Chicero leapt high into the air, landing with a sickening thud. Pepelito's tail thrashed in rage. He kicked the back door hard, unable to bear the torture they inflicted.

Oh no. Was this his fault?

He kept both his feet wedged underneath the door and pushed up with his lower legs, ignoring everything but this, not noticing his bleeding hooves and cut ankles. The heavy door slammed into his feet and he snorted, crying in fury at himself. Maybe he wasn't strong enough.

Chicero grunted in the terrible pain Pepelito knew so well. Eyes dripping with tears, he forced his right foot under the metal, driving it twenty centimetres above the ground, then pushed and kicked with his left, the skin on his legs grazed. Now the bottom edge was level with his ankles. Pepelito lowered his head, trying to force the door upwards with his horns, create space that didn't exist. The stabbing sensations in his neck he thought had gone returned.

'The querencia, eh? Come on now, out your comfort zone,' a spectator laughed. Chicero pressed himself against a wooden board near the one obscuring Pepelito's door, his agonised cries almost drowned out by excited shrieks, applause and laughter. With the scent of blood overwhelming him, Pepelito tried to sit, scraping his horns and ramming his bleeding, bruised knees under the door, panting as he heaved it higher.

What if he couldn't stop them?

'Go on. Get him out his little corner, make him fight,' a woman snarled, her voice full of hate.

'Hah. That'll teach him to run. Pathetic.' The door was now high enough that Pepelito could lower his head and push with it. Clenching the teeth in the back of his mouth until his eyes rolled back, he pushed upwards with his forehead and horns, then his nose. The resin plug on his other horn came off, stinging him. He pushed until he could fit his whole head underneath, his neck squeezed so tight his throat constricted. As he sniffed the air in horror, a bullfighter stabbed a fourth pair of black 'punishment' darts into Chicero's back.

Jolyon waved his white handkerchief. To the sound of a trumpet, Henry re-entered the ring alone. The crowd screamed its delight. Hold on, Pepelito begged his friend, forcing the rusted barrier up with all the strength he had.

'This is it,' a man said, breathless. 'The suerte suprema. Just watch.'

His entire body was sore from the effort but he couldn't give up, not now. Out of breath, Pepelito watched, unable to intervene, as Henry led the exhausted, bleeding bull around in the sand with his matador's cape. Sand and dirt stung his eyes. His friend's pain was breaking him with rage and sadness. The door weighed heavily as he nudged it upwards with his neck, his spine about to crack.

He paced back, put his head underneath the metal door and heaved up with everything he had, until he could fit his shoulders underneath. He pressed at the depression with his feet, drawing his aching muscles upwards until the door clicked and the lock mechanism snapped.

'Convention dictates that I must dedicate this bull to someone,' Henry grinned, waving around Belmonte's sword as Chicero panted for breath. He took his hat off, placed it between the bull's horns, leaned forward and screeched, inches from his face. Then, flourishing his cape, he theatrically spun round, turning his back on Chicero. The crowd cheered, enraptured with barbaric excitement. Someone yelled, 'Henry is Innocent', another spectator shouted 'Bravo'.

Pepelito edged forward cautiously, the door heavy against his scarred and tender back.

He took a step, then another one.

Time to fight.

'Allow me, then, to dedicate this first bull of ours to the esteemed proprietor of this most magnificent of establishments, the great aficionado, our wonderful friend, Sir Jolyon Richmond. Who could fail to appreciate his excellent hospitality?' Before Henry had finished speaking, the heavy door answered him with a metallic crash.

Pepelito leapt at the barrier, knocking over a wooden burladero, shattering the gate in front of him. Digging his feet hard into the sand, he sent stuck together clumps flying. Everyone stared. Rather than cheers and clapping, Henry's dedication was met by total silence.

'Oh. Fuck.'

'What the hell's it doing?'

'I'm scared!'

Then the screaming started.

Shrieks of shock, disbelief and unholy terror filled the air. Those who had found beauty in Chicero's suffering and torture now gasped before the horror they knew had come for them.

Pepelito locked eyes with the grey bull for a few seconds. Then, to a background of screams, he filled his lungs with a deep breath and stormed towards Henry, faster than he'd ever run in his life, his mind only on one thing. His feet felt surer on the dense builder's sand, knowing these people saw in him the retribution they'd thought would never and could never touch them.

He would never let them kill Chicero.

He couldn't lose another friend.

'Get back in there, you stupid animal!' Henry's shocked face turned red, then white as his nemesis tore towards him across the arena, head down, horns forward.

Pepelito knew what he had to do.

'No! Stay away from me!'

Launching himself at Henry, Pepelito thrust his horns into his stomach. Hard spikes ripped Juan Belmonte's gaudy £350,000 costume, tearing a hole in the soft flesh beneath. Bright red blood gushed from the serial killer's stomach as he tried to slap his attacker in a fruitless struggle. The liquid seeped into the bull's fur, dripped into his eyes. The great matador's precious sword slipped from Henry's hand as Pepelito's hooves pounded him into the rough construction sand. Howling in agony, he rolled around clutching his stomach, blood spurting from the wound.

Suddenly, Lord Owenstoft's Shire horse screamed in fright from outside the ring as he tried to tether it, kicking him in the stomach. The 'protective' covering it wore trailed onto the ground. Its blindfold loosened, then tumbled off as it bolted towards the elevators.

The guy with the swastika t-shirt sprang out of his seat, sobbing. He sprinted towards the lifts, tripped and fell on the shiny floor. As the huge horse sidled with menacing steps, he tried to stand up, whacked the keypad again and again, and pummelled the elevator door. Pepelito watched, astonished, as the carthorse kicked the man in the head, then stood on him as he lay motionless.

Perhaps horses weren't so evil.

Finding strength and courage, Chicero shot into the stands. Cries of terror reverberated as he gored and trod on spectators in their seats. Tears streaming down their faces, terrified aficionados rushed for the doors, trampling each other in blind, petrified panic.

'That's the exit! Let me through, you pricks!'

One man shoved several people out of his way, flinging open the door to a tiny, dark room. Four others ran inside, blundered into and broke several shelves full of bullfighting equipment, knocking down a box of daggers and darts. Lances, banderillas and swords crashed onto the floor and rolled into the stands. Fleeing spectators tripped and tumbled over the weapons clattering down the steps. One landed on a dart. 'Fuck!' he screamed, slicing his hand on its sharp metal blade.

Multiple pairs of flailing legs knocked one of the long picador's lances as it fell, sending it sailing through the air. It struck a diamond and crystal encrusted chandelier in the ceiling, shattering it on impact and showering the sand with glass. With the remains of the chandelier scattered around, the spear landed, pointed end upwards, in a dense mound of builder's sand. Jolyon gazed at his broken light with a tear-stained face.

'How dare you do this to me?' Henry screeched at Pepelito, his furious yells tearing through the bull's ears. He staggered to his feet, clutching Belmonte's sword like a walking stick, his other hand pressed to the dripping wound in his stomach.

'How could you?' Henry shouted. Pepelito turned his head in his direction, heart pounding, and scraped a line deep into the sand.

'Leave me alone! Just go!'

Powering towards him, Pepelito rammed Henry with his horns and leapt, hurling him and his sword across the arena. Screaming like a banshee, Henry soared through the air and landed right on the lance's sharp point. He struggled and waved his arms, but his shouts of rage became a gurgling noise as the tip of the spear emerged from his back. His lifeless corpse slid down the lance's handle before reaching the bottom, like a vampire with a stake through his heart.

Rita was shouting but, in the chaos, Pepelito couldn't tell where. She was scared. So was he. He needed human help. He sniffed the air and listened carefully for the sound. There. Behind him. Pepelito turned around, his bleeding legs stinging, and half ran, half walked towards where he thought he heard it. He trotted around the ring, much more slowly on his aching feet, having trouble breathing.

'Dios mio,' Rita sobbed. Pepelito steeled himself to approach the metal door behind the gate Chicero had smashed in his rampage. His tongue was hanging out. He walked forward and tried to press his horns underneath Rita's door, but couldn't find enough strength. The gap was too small, the tips too wide. He stood on a nail with his back foot. Someone grabbed his tail from behind, twisting it hard.

'Only one thing to do with such a dangerous bull!' A group of aficionados and bullfighters in costumes were surrounding him, shrieking in rage. He was so hot, so thirsty. Everything hurt. The woman in designer clothes had a dagger. Someone punched him. He was ready to collapse. He had to protect Chicero. Where was he? He tossed his head and caught one of his assailants in the stomach, wanting to drop.

That meant death.

He had to fight.

But Pepelito heard another noise above the crashes and rage filled screeching, as he stood precariously on the broken board, exhausted, dazed and panting. A high pitched wail the soundproofing at the Armitage Hotel couldn't eliminate, starting faint and growing louder.

The noise of sirens.

With every last bit of strength he could summon up, Pepelito threw himself at his attackers. His hooves knocked the air out of the woman's stomach. Her dagger fell from her hand and she lay sobbing, sand all over her Balenciaga handbag.

'Armed police! Drop your weapons and place your hands on your head!'

Pepelito watched, exhausted, as fifty officers with guns and riot shields stormed into the room from the lifts and stairs. The cops grabbed the fleeing spectators and shoved them against the walls. The carthorse reared up, neighed and brought its hooves down on another ticket buyer as he scrambled to escape. As the woman in designer clothes dug around for her dagger in the sand, Chicero gave her a ferocious kick, trampling her as she slipped. The grey bull stepped forward two paces, then collapsed front legs first, exhausted and bleeding.

'What the fuck happened here?'

'Another fucking bullfighting stadium! With actual bulls!'

Pepelito approached Chicero, needing his company, anxious about these strange people and worried about Rita. He didn't have the strength to free her. Breaking himself loose had taken everything he had. The horrific black banderillas meant Chicero could barely move his head, but he lifted it for a few seconds to give Pepelito a big, grateful lick on the nose.

'Rita?' Dominguez shouted.

Pepelito's spirits lifted as he heard his friend's voice. He edged a tiny step towards the sound. The police dragged Lord Owenstoft past him in handcuffs, shouting, 'Politically motivated witch hunt!'

The Scottish bull who'd called to Pepelito earlier had forced himself out of his cell too, and was wandering around the ring, confused.

'I'm here,' Rita sobbed, struggling to make herself heard. Pepelito wanted to help her but his legs wouldn't move.

'Coming.' Dominguez walked towards Rita's metal door with a few people he didn't recognise. Good. Humans were helping her. Maybe he could even let himself lie down.

He needed water.

Heather ascended the steps above Rita's door and used Henry's metal pole to yank it open. Moments later Rita emerged, her shirt stained with blood, her hair messed up. Shaking, she hugged them all in tears.

Pepelito was crying too.

'Um, well done.' Mansouri reached a hand out and touched his nose awkwardly, gaping at Henry's impaled body.

'You saved everyone,' Rita sobbed, putting her arm around Pepelito's back. He loved his friend so much. But his back and neck were too bruised to be petted. He backed away, sinking to the ground next to Chicero, unable to stay on his feet or cope with everyone swarming around, feeling dizzy, feeling sick. He wanted to sleep on a bed of soft grass.

Maybe he could soon.

'There's 3 more bulls locked up. And Chicero needs a vet, or he'll die!' Rita yelled at the armed British officers.

'Of course, ma'am.'

Pepelito licked Chicero's back. Slashing his tongue on the vicious metal spikes, he let out a grunt but stayed beside him. Heather gently laid a blanket over the wounded bull. We're safe now, Pepelito told his friend, knowing Chicero believed it.

'Nice work, amigos, have some water, both of you. My uncle would be proud of you.' Dominguez knelt beside Pepelito with a huge bucket, kissing the top of his head and rubbing behind his ears. His nose and tongue were dry, he felt so hot and he was struggling to breathe.

But he'd saved his friends.

Soon, he could go home.

He took several gulps of water, then collapsed.

AN: 2 more to go. Hope you enjoyed this scene as much as I did