John Henry's Mettle - Part 1

Many years before the advent of the Global Spellbreaking Alliance… 

The Great War. An interesting time for spellbreaking to be sure, as John Henry Iron--a veteran champion–could have told you. Though the sport had technically existed since the Time of the Great Empires, it was only shortly before the war that a haphazard cross-over between sideshow acts and vaudeville curiosity transformed gladiatorial combat into the form of entertainment we know and love today.

Some would even say spellbreaking truly began in the Americas (though, this is up for debate), its greatest champions paralleling the grand heroes of tall tales. Indeed, there were many big names during the 'dawn' of spellbreaking. The mysterious hero, Calavera Escarlata and his ever-burning mask. Thunderbird Taylor, a powerful, earth-shaking warrior from the great prairies. Queen Morgana, a beautiful enchantress without comparison who blew open the door for lady spellbreakers. Some heroes, sadly, went unsung, and their true value to the sport was never recognized.

John Henry Iron sat somewhere between stardom and humility. Before the international leagues, spellbreaking was a loose 'wilderness' of small federations and companies, some of them more dubious than others. The southern U.S. and the nation of Texas called home to several enterprises, with many spellbreakers hopping between companies as sort of modern-day 'ronin' of the sport. John Henry, a mountain of a man with steel-sculpted muscles and a diamond smile, was one such 'wandering warrior' unbound to any federation, refusing to be tied down by contracts or forced to conform to any image other than the one he'd set out for himself. He had never sought out stardom, though he'd won his fair share of accolades by the time the Great War was in full swing.

Nobody knew where the 'Iron Titan' named J.H. came from. Most were too afraid to ask--though the man's personality suggested nothing but the most genial disposition. It was known that J.H. made his way around the States by way of the railroad, which he worked on as a freelancer. It was said his mastery of metals and alloy manipulation were so great that he could lay down whole sections of rail within minutes. Such feats earned him more admiration than scorn, but most of all, his gifts kept him fed. Between that and spellbreaking, those who followed the "Iron Titan" sensed he was a man living above his means, but for reasons of necessity, he never flaunted whatever keep he made.

Barring one exception, of course. The exception that began this humble legend, when two titans met on the battlefield... 

In any universe, in any timeline, New Orleans has always been a magick city. The great magi have their theories as to why. It is said to even be home to those--it is whispered--who possess the seldom-seen glyph of ‘time.’ The city by the bayou has always been a nexus, a font of power, drawing sorcerers and magi to it like moths to a flame...an apt analogy, perhaps, as it is said the city too-often feeds on power.

It just so happened that the man and myth named J.H. Iron came through the city, which was hosting a whole slew of spellbreaking tournaments. It was March, but spring had come early--which, in the swamps, felt more like early summer. On a red streetcar traveling down palm-lined Canal Street, John Henry towered above the other passengers, who were reading newspapers (to see the latest news from the Eastern Front), or checking their watches, or otherwise hoping to find the cool shade of a tavern.

By way of fate or other forces, a sudden metallic clamor drew J.H.'s eyes--and the eyes of his passengers--to an overturned pickup truck right in the middle of the tracks. Already a crowd had formed around the overturned vehicle, and the desperate shouting of a female passenger cut through the lazy, mid-noon tranquility.

"Help! Help, I can't open the door! Please, my fiancé, he's..."

John Henry sighed and poked his head out the window. Some local boys were already trying to lift the truck, and they didn't look like they were getting far. He could tell between the breaks in the shattered window that the driver and passenger were both stuck upside down, their seatbelts the only thing keeping them upright. The red-headed woman's hair dangled in front of her face as she pounded uselessly against the door.

J.H. frowned. "Tell her to get away from the window," he yelled to the crowd.

The crowd gathered around the vehicle returned John Henry's command with suspicious eyes and slack jaws.

Again, he sighed. "Just...stay back." He concentrated, gave a low grunt, and made a quick movement with his right wrist.

Like a jack-in-the-box, the truck bolted up right off the ground, setting off screams, stumbles and general panic from everyone in the vicinity; least of all the poor lady inside the truck.

Everyone is so dramatic here," John Henry thought, as he made a turning motion with his hand--slowly, slowly--bringing the upright car steadily to the ground again. The crowd gasped, some uttered prayers and made the sign of the Goddess on their chests. 

The woman threw open the passenger door, just as the wail of an oncoming ambulance announced help's arrival. Befuddled, she blew a strand of her bright red hair from out of her face and pointed to the trolley. "You! That handsome man there! He saved us!"

John Henry winced. He didn't want the attention. Still, he endured the roar and cheer that rouse up in the trolley as the rubbernecking driver set it back into motion again, thankfully taking J.H. away from any more onlookers or well-wishers.

"It's just..." he started, drowned out by the wide-eyed audience he now commanded. "People, calm down, it's just the right thing to do!"

A man with a thick, Cajun drawl patted John Henry on the shoulder. Needless to say, he was not used to anybody so boldly touching him, and though it wasn't positively received, the giant man knew there was no ill intent behind it. "Let me buy you a drink, frere."

Damn, there was no easy way out of this. So much for keeping his head low. John Henry righted himself and pulled back his overall straps. "No, let me buy you a drink."

You would have thought the man thought John Henry a god. "Non, mon ami!"

"Let me buy you a drink!" A bearded fellow, missing several teeth, said.

Oh Good Goddess, John Henry thought. Well, so much for a noontime gym session. "Tell you what, fellas--how about I buy the first round and you can all argue over the rest." He puffed out his chest, admittedly feeling a bit tickled by the adoration. "Pick the place. I'm there."

That place turned out to be a two-story tavern along Bourbon Street, with an overhanging terrace surrounded by gas lanterns. It was spooky and elegant like everything else in New Orleans, and John Henry appreciated it. He'd also eaten a few meals here already, so he was familiar with the joint.

He was also familiar with the bartender and waitress, a beautiful, petit angel named Sandra who didn't take shit from anybody. Now, the thing about John Henry was that no man on Earth had ever intimidated him--not once, but women on the other hand turned his legs to jelly. He just could never muster up the courage to speak to a pretty woman, and Sandra was the prettiest of them all.

"What can I get you, sugar?" she asked approaching the bar. She had an air of duty around her; a pleasant detachment. John Henry surmised it was from having to interact with so many unruly and impolite patrons. Thankfully, when he was around, nobody disrespect any bar staff in his presence, or stepped out of line--and if they did, then they were just stupid.

John Henry stared into his beer mug--his first drink, but not the first one bought for him. In truth, he didn't like the feeling of being drunk, and had so far passed off his mugs to other welcoming patrons when nobody was looking.

He did not make eye contact with the angel. "Nothing, ma'am. Maybe in a little bit?"

"You sure? I would recommend the hush puppies..."

John Henry gulped. Oh Goddess, she was a real business woman too! "S-sure, I'll take a round of those, ma'am." And then he fell into the trap of glancing up.

She beamed at him, and his heart took the brunt of it. She was beautiful, with tall cheekbones, a dark complexion--with just the slightest of slight gaps between her two front teeth that seemed to make her all the more uniquely beautiful when she smiled. "You sure are a shy one, aren't ya?"

Of all mercies, she walked away before J.H. could fathom what to say to a woman like that--or even say something dumb and stupid and awkward, which was usually par for the course in his experience. He returned to his beer, stewing in a mixture of admiration and his own failure to act on it.

Before he could spiral any further, however, he was once again drawn to another commotion. Seemed every few minutes in this town, something noisy and perilous occurred.

"Don't even look at my woman, you hear me, pretty boy!?"

If John Henry knew anything about men, it was that they were beasts of habit--especially when it came to acting foolish. With a bored expression, he glanced sideways at the bearded oaf towering over the playboy who'd most definitely had, in fact, been looking at the ogre's woman.

Sometimes, even when John Henry was present, people did choose to act stupid. He waited to see how long it would take before he'd need to step in and make them regret it.

The oaf turned around, circling his malcontent--a strapping, muscular, wild-eyed young man with his hair tied back in a ponytail. Not something you typically saw in New Orleans, for sure. You had to be strapping indeed to be a man and wear your hair like that, and dress like the combination between a rodeo rider...and a rodeo clown by the looks of the gent's swanky get-up too. The look on the muscular man's face was pure smug. He knew he was pretty--and John Henry likewise knew he'd faced very little repercussions or consequences in life, just by his presence alone.

Who does this rhinestone cowboy think he is, John Henry thought, taking a sip of his beer. He narrowed his eyes. Wait, don't I know that guy? His eyes traveled upward to the torn and faded spellbreaking posters hanging on the far wall. Yep, right there in the middle, striking a dynamic pose with his cowboy hat, was the idiot in question---his white vest embroidered with lightning bolts.

Hmmm. Carter the Horsebreaker? No, that ain't it. Jim the Rodeo Romeo? Hell, what was that fancy-footed whiteboy's name again?

Well, whatever his name, the handsome idiot was in deep shit and probably didn't even recognize what he was standing in either. The gent in the white cowboy boots threw back his beer and laughed in the face of the huffing behemoth breathing down his neck.

"Awww, ain't nothin' doin', brother," he said. "Just exchanging words with a pretty lady." He winked at the blonde, buxom, woman in leopard print sitting in the corner and making eyes at him. She giggled like a schoolgirl.

John Henry glanced to either side--already, he could see other eyes turning towards the troublemakers. Yep. This is going to be a problem. He glanced up at Sandra, her arms crossed and her mouth twisted to the side in dismay. She looked like she could immolate either of these two ruffians with her stare.

"You got a bouncer?" John Henry asked.

Without missing a beat, and without so much as looking back at him, she said, "I am the bouncer. She lowered her stare. "Wait. I want to see how this plays out..."

Damn! John Henry, struck with Cupid's Arrow, forced his heart to settle down, before he re-focused on the problem at hand.

The smug country boy--looking like a damn cigarette or Stetson model--shrugged his shoulders. "Well, what are you gonna do about it, hoss?" He jerked a thumb at the poster behind him. "You know who I am, don't ya? I'm the stunning sensation from the Lone Star nation, the lord of the lightning lasso, and..." he winked at the woman again, "the 'Rodeo Romeo' himself. Colt THE Bolt. And I will strike you down where you stand, partner!"

Oh Goddess, he really did call himself the 'Rodeo Romeo'. Looks like he's had some drink in him too. What a mess. 

The giant man, who looked to J.H. like a biker grunt, cracked his knuckles in reply.

"What are you gonna do, hoss," Colt asked, rolling his eyes and gesturing broadly to the room. He knew he had a crowd now, and he was fixin' to impress. 

Like monstrous bugs scurrying from the woodwork, a group of three or four leather-clad, bald, tattooed men gathered around their leader and the long-haired lothario. 

The cowboy raised an eyebrow, and smirked. "Hell, you gonna give me a good time, is that it?"

John Henry slammed his beer down on the bar and stood, just as Sandra inched her way forward. He held his hand out to her. "I know you can," he said. "But Iet them waste my time, not yours."

She looked at him, concerned for his well-being. "You sure? These guys play with shadows, you understand?"

Dark magi. J.H. knew some of the local slang. Feeling strangely confident, John Henry turned to Sandra and held up his arm, a liquid metal creeping over his skin. "Got you covered, ma'am. Gonna go russle me a cowboy..."

Next Chapter!

John Henry's Mettle - Part 2

Seven giant, pale men (none under six feet tall) circled the brash, long-haired Texan. Between them all, a varying amounts of tattoos and teeth. The leather-clad malcontents of the Bourbon Street bar closed in on the arrogant cowboy like pack animals ready to dig their teeth on a particularly large forest beast. 

But the fact that Colt didn't look scared at all was what made John Henry bite his lip.

Well, here we go, he sighed as he watched the first punch thrown.

The blonde Lothario was able to dodge it with ease, of course--he was a trained fighter. And he didn't even so much as wince as one of the ogres broke a whole wooden chair across his back, splinters and wooden legs flying off in every direction.

Behind the bar, Sandra covered her mouth with her hands. "Goddess grace..."

"Now you're just makin' me ornery!" Colt growled. He took on a wrestler's stance and clipped the giant by his legs, knocking him off balance. All the while, Sandra, the very petit, very pretty bartender, threw threats and curses towards the combatants for daring to break her furniture. John Henry wasn't sure who scared him most among, the gang members, or her.

Either way, he knew this young stallion--or Colt, as it were--wasn't about to easily handle seven grunts with access to shadow magick, no matter how confidence his ring persona. Mr. Iron dived into the frey, using his words as his shield. "Hey y'all, why don't I buy us a round and or two and we can work this--"

He caught the bald, sinewy man's punch with his hand before it could connect with his face. 

He sighed. "So, that's how it's gonna be..."

The troll looked at him doubtfully. Meanwhile, the skin on John Henry's hand melted into liquid metal, the molecules in his cells changing atomic properties as his whole arm turned to metal.

He gripped down on his foe's knuckles. CRUNCH.

The grunt, who dared throw a punch at him, let out a high pitched scream, before John Henry release his broken hand and allowed him to fall to the ground. One down. Six more to go. And now the others had taken proper notice of their new combatant, slithering in to double team the iron-handed fighter.

This was, officially, a ballroom brawl.

To his credit, Colt had taken his opponent to the ground, mounting him and pummelling his face and chest with his fists. But the greasy haired gang member's skin was thick, and his bones even denser than his brain. He absorbed Colt's hits like a sponge. Worse, the cowboy failed to notice his enemy's shadow slithering from beneath his stinking boot. It formed a tail, or tendril, around Colt's ankle, just above his overly-embroidered, cowboy boot.

John Henry grabbed the skulls of his two assailants in his iron grip and brought them together, like smashing two eggs into each other at once. The two oafs made a sickening grunt and fell to the ground, giving John Henry a clear view towards Colt, wailing on his foe like a schoolboy. John Henry blinked. The floor looked like it was moving. That couldn't be right. No, it was the big man's man shadow, wrapping around clueless Colt's leg like a damn serpent.

The sweaty lunk on the ground, blood dripping from his cut lip, flashed Colt a yellowed, evil grin. "Got you now," he breathed, breath rotten with cheap liquor.

Colt blinked, breathing heavily. His energy was already spent. "You don't know when to give up--"

Cold, sharp pain dug into his legs as the razor-wire shadow manacles clamped down. It was ready to saw the cowboy's calves right off, cut through to the bone.

Gritting his teeth, Colt's eyes flashed like lightning. "You just made a very, very big mistake, partner."

John Henry had just enough time to note the odd scent in the air, like burning oxygen, and the curious sensation of an oncoming storm. Strands of Colt's long hair stood on end, an invisible force teasing them out. John Henry felt the molecules in the air shift, electrify. A current ran through John Henry's metal arm, and he looked down to see what was causing the tingling sensation.

Suddenly, the gang member on the ground bolted up, convulsing and smoking, while Colt, eyes lit up golden yellow, held his hand against the varmint's thick neck. He was electrocuting the bastard!

"Stop!" John Henry commanded, but he had other things to worry about. Living shadows, larger than him even, were closing in--and they meant business.

The black tendril gripping Colt's leg dissipated, and it was only for his heroic disposition that he relented his assault, ceasing electrocution. The ogre twitched on the hardwood floor, eyes rolled back into his head. Colt got off his mount, breathing heavily, making sure to shake ambient static out of his hand and pat down his now messy hair. To John Henry he looked tapped out of power. This was not uncommon for young guns like Colt who channelled all their magick in one go, burning out too early in a fight.

Even worse, the other Shadow Boys were just getting started. By now, the blonde bimbo that Colt had been hitting on---kicking off this whole sordid mess---had turned on her high heels and fled, as did most of the bar's sensible people, leaving Sandra to hold sway over the unruly dregs. A crowd of drunks formed a circle around the combatants, cheering, jeering, and throwing down money as if this were a cage fight or a live spellbreaking match.

Which, technically, it now was. Or so John Henry surmised. 

Shadows pulled themselves from the floor, not unlike adhesives ripped from the skin of reality. Black substance, trickling like saliva, accompanied the blobs as they shaped themselves into three dimensional, darker copies of their conjuring hosts.

A human fiend threw his knotted, muscular arm around Colt's neck, getting him in a tight chokehold---while his shadowy doppelganger did the dirty work of pounding against his torso. Spittle threw from the cowboy's mouth as the shadow beast dug in deep. John Henry figured Colt was trained to take a beating or two, but knew he wouldn't last long with most of his voltage spent.

Still, Mr. Iron had problems of his own. He took a step forward, no further than the overturned table---a sea of beer and brown liquor around his feet---before he felt a tug, a pull, on either of his hands. Those damn living shadows, pliable as they were, had turned their limbs into ropes, binding John, pulling him in either direction. The shadow's owners warmed their knuckles, grinning menacingly, while the crowd whooped and yelled at this sudden turn of events. 

Before John Henry could react, his eyes caught motion of something flying through the air over the bar. At first, he assumed some bourbon-drunk idiot had chucked a table their way. Then, he saw the outline of a furious Sandra landing on the big brute's back, wrapping her arms around his neck. He struggled to pull her off as she rode and pounded on his head, bucking bronco style. John Henry was stunned! 

Even more so when Sandra's eyes began glowing an unearthly white. The giant she rode suddenly dropped to his knees, struggling to free himself from her grip as all the color--what little there was--drained out of his body. She was literally absorbing the life out of him. His shadow evaporated into smoke, returning to its proper place beneath his massive build.

The drooling colossus in leather tipped over, like falling timber, and collapsed into the puddle of beer. The toothless, bearded shadow magi binding John's left arm, glared towards the bartender who'd downed his buddy. Suddenly, his shadow's tentacles freed John Henry's arm, turning instead towards Sandra, standing at attention and ready for more.

"Sandra!" John Henry yelled.

The black, liquid ropes wound themselves around the bartender's arm, and the crowd cried out in fright. It was only when Sandra's lips curled into a smile that John Henry realized the brilliance in her strategy. Her eyes flashed white again, and a silver light appeared within the shadow beast's smoky, dark form. Its dark consistency shifted, shadow-flesh cracking. The light inside it exploded the beast into trails of vapor, all magick dispelled, and its master fainting on the spot, joining his other comrades on the ground.

"That's some woman!" Colt opined, as he wrapped his thick arms around a grunt's waist and suplexed him over behind the bar. 

The sound of accompanying glass shattering drew Sandra's attention back towards her station. "Damn it, Colton!" she said, bounding towards the bar. She pointed an accusatory finger in his direction, and even he flinched. "You fix this damn mess, or I'm gonna fix you." With that, she hurdled over the bar again, attending to the damage--and, presumably--the damaged man.

What's someone with the 'Life' glyph doing serving swill on Bourbon Street? John Henry thought. That was healing magick she possessed. And Sandra had just demonstrated its propensity as harming magick, when applied offensively.

But John Henry hadn't the time to dwell on the thought. A tall, gangly freak with oily, long hair, still had him by the arm. He was in the process of trying to reel him in like a fish. More irritating than troublesome, John Henry thought. Without sparring much effort, Mr. Iron turned his left arm into liquid mercury--quick silver. The shadow bindings passed right through him, life falling through water. John shifted back to skin and bone, and then used the same arm to deliver a haymaker to the tall bastard's jaw. The sound of his fist connecting with face told John Henry that the gang member would no longer be a problem.

Two grunts left--so of course they were both the biggest of the bunch. John Henry pressed his back up against Colt, making sure they were in an advantageous position. John Henry's opponent was a mean looking bastard with a devilish series of tattoos on his face. Necromancer or Demoniac, in all likelihood. Very dark magick, seldom used for good. 

"You okay, ace?" John Henry whispered to his impromptu tag partner.

"The name's Colt, not Ace!" the fighter said, frowning, and eyeballing the giant, corpulent bear of a man rearing up in front of him. 

John Henry smiled. "Ah, so you're stupid! I like that in a guy." 

"I can take on both of them!" Colt growled. "This is my show, big man."

John Henry could tell this scrappy spellbreaker was burning out quick. His energy was off, low. "You need to build up your energy, lightning man. Looks like you've just short circuited."

"Nah, I just gotta hold 'em off for a bit longer!" The grimace Colt made as he held his side---a bruised or broken rib probably---suggested otherwise. 

Mr. Iron sucked his teeth. This handsome idiot wasn't gonna listen to him unless he felt like he was in charge. And John Henry was pretty sure he'd used a up good chunk of his own magick already. He couldn't sustain his metallic forms for lengthy durations. So, he relied on an old trick of his. He decided the battle was already won and that he just needed to figure out how to get from point 'A' to point 'C'...preferably while still alive.

What tools were available? What offensive magicks were we dealing with here? How could it be countered. In spellbreaking, especially in tag teams, the goal was always finding that sweet, perfect combination of elements. Oftentimes, the more surprising mixtures produced the best outcomes. So, what did we have here? Electricity. Metal.

"Perfect," John Henry said, his eyes lighting up at any idea. Now, he just had to hope that 1. Colt would actually take his suggestion, and 2. he had enough juice left inside him to action it. He wasn't sure which was more probable now.

"Okay, cowboy, listen up." He straightened his back, threw back his shoulders, and addressed the crowd. "You wanna give these geeks a Goddess-dammed show? Listen to me." With his back against Colt's---and damn was this boy built out of bricks---he couldn't see his face, so no sign of whether he'd convinced him. The pause that followed was not encouraging.

Then, "Hell yeah, brother! What do you have in mind?"

The wave of relief cooled John Henry down, gave him hope even, but he knew they were both far from out of trouble. 

"Now this might sound crazy, Tex. But don't turn your electricity onto either of these lugs. I need you to turn it on me instead."

"You insane, big guy? It'll fry your brains out!" He lowered his voice. "Truthfully, metal man, I don't know if I have enough juice for one of them, let alone two."

"Trust me, partner. I need you right now more than you need me." Which was a lie, of course, as John was damned sure he could handle this without the cowboy's intervention, but for the sake of the moment, this was the easiest path towards victory.

"Okay, sure. You got one of those trusting faces, partner. Plus, I ain't never been steered wrong by a guy with that much muscle!"

"On my mark. Pivot yourself around, clamp down on my neck, and unleash the lightning." 

Of course, John Henry had never attempted something so brazen as this before, so the end result could very well be his heart exploding from the voltage. But, he was man of science and magick, and it was the best option they had.

"Ready?"

The two monster men closed in, their shadow servants rearing up behind them to assist in the inevitable dismembering. John Henry side-stepped, taking a wide stance, and threw out his arms--tempting targets for the dark magi to make a grab. Luckily, they fell for the bait.

This would require perfect timing. No second chances. John Henry closed his eyes. "Now!"

For once in his life, Colt did as he was told. He jammed his fingers into John Henry's thick neck, and pumped all the voltage he had left inside him. Simultaneously, John transformed his whole body into pure silver---for maximum conductivity---becoming a living, metal sculpture. His consciousness blinked out, and as he faded into black, he hoped to Goddess that this stunt would pay off.

The electricity travelled through the metal giant, a perfect conduit, and into the bodies of the giant magi. A short shock, packed with enough wattage to fell a bull, was all that was needed. The two men convulsed, their shadows evaporated, and they fell to the ground---completely stunned. 

All the while, Sandra looked out from behind the bar, her hand covering her mouth. She had never seen a human use magick like that before, become metal. It was almost like a living work of art.

John Henry became flesh and blood again, gasping for air and looking around wildly to see if his stunt had worked. Total silence. Hundreds of drunken, wide-eyed stares. 

The next thing John saw was the tattooed man's head trapped between Colt's jean as he hoisted him up and spiked his head into a low table, sending splinters everywhere. Colt stood up and pointed to the air with a 'number one'. "Piledriver!" He cried out. "K.O.! Yeeeee-hawwww!"

"You're paying for that, Colton Tamberly!" Sandra cried out, before she was drowned out by a wild crowd, spilling beer and throwing dollars at John Henry and his stormy companion.

Colt pulled back his ponytail, breathing heavy. He took in the adoration of the crowd, giving them a wide grin, and striking his 'number one' pose again. "Howdy, howdy, let's get rowdy!" He shouted, hands up in the air, strutting around like a damn champion. If the men in the room were capable of lifting him up on their shoulders and parading him around like a king, they would have. As it were, they chanted, "Bolt! Bolt! Bolt!"

John Henry rolled his eyes. "That...wasn't even practical, man!" 

Torn from the drunks currently touching his biceps, Colt stopped flexing and turned his eyes towards John. "But it is flashy," he said proudly. "And Colt the Bolt is about that flash bang!" He made finger-guns. Finger-guns.

Then, to John Henry's complete and utter annoyance, the cowboy took a fighting stance, squaring off with him instead.

"But I still got some fight in me, and now we have a crowd! You want some, too, steel giant?" he said, fists raised. "I ain't ever gone up against a titan like you, and I think I'd like to strike down a giant tonight!"

"Aw hell no---you're not gonna fight me after that, are you!?"

"Too afraid? Here comes the storm!" 

Colt reached out to grab John Henry's arm, but the bigger man promptly transformed it into metal---the last spurt of energy he had. The cowboy reacted by pumping a shock into him---just as John Henry expected. Nothing happened. The crowd looked on, stupid. So did Colt.

"...Uh...what?"

"You know the best defense against lightning, boy?" John Henry said, nodding to his feet. He'd turned his left leg into metal as well, grounding himself, letting the voltage pass through his system and into the floor without damage. "A lightning rod."

Colt leaned back, and then gave John Henry the goofiest, shit eating grin he'd ever seen. "Aw, hey, see I was just messin--"

The next thing the crowd saw was the giant John Henry clamp his massive legs down on Colt's head, hoist him by his waist, and bring him up so high that the cowboy's head almost touch the ceiling. Then, John Henry delivered the most spectacular bomb that anybody in the bar had ever seen, inside or outside a spellbreaking ring.

Colt groaned on the ground, half conscious and concussed, laying helplessly splayed out for all to see. John Henry towered above him, inhaling and exhaling. 

"That'll learn you--" John Henry started to say, before he felt something on his back. A darkness took hold. He slipped into oblivion. And that was that.

Next Chapter!

John Henry's Mettle - Part 3

John Henry awoke on a hard, cold surface. 

Dark. He lifted his head up, finding himself otherwise no worse for wear, and surveyed his new surroundings.

He was greeted by the last face he wanted to see--Colt, cut up, puffy eyed, but otherwise still handsome. The cowboy glowered at him from his seat on the single cot. "You enjoy the snooze?"

He was like a snotty teenager. Mr. Iron glared at him and swivelled his neck around to survey the tight, concrete room. Iron bars on one side, and a grating over the window. A jail cell. Now, it made sense. That touch on his back had been the cops, using anti-magick to disable and subdue him.

John Henry sighed, annoyed beyond reason. Should never have agreed to that drink. "Yep, that makes sense." He turned back to Colt and gave him a nasty look. "This is your damn fault!" 

Colt shrugged indignantly, tucking his knees to his chest and lying back on the cot--the only one in the cell by the looks of it. The cowboy said nothing in reply, just tipped his hat over his eyes, blocking John Henry from his site.

I should beat his ass silly! John Henry eyed the cell. No dampening runes, so the police clearly didn't think of them as being too dangerous. He wondered if Sandra had intervened on their behalf. Well, nothing to do now other than enjoy the silence and await their fate...

Only, Colt wasn't going to allow him that respite either, it seemed. "Gotta admit--that was some impressive footwork there," he said from beneath his hat.

John Henry briefly considered not saying anything at all. "Thanks. You aren't so bad yourself. But you're way too cocky."

"Heard that before--don't care. That's metal magick, right? I ain't ever seen something like that."

"Fine. But a guy with muscle and power like that shouldn't be mouthing off--you could have really hurt someone, including yourself! I know you think you're the cock of the walk, being a spellbreaker and all, but take it from another one--"

Colt suddenly sat up, his cowboy hat falling to the cracked concrete floor. "You're a spellbreaker? Damn, I thought as much! That's real power you got there, brother!"

This pivot from indignation to adulation was like whiplash, and John Henry had to make an effort to refocus himself. "Boy, there something wrong with your head? First off, you're not allowed to call me 'brother', so let's get that straight. Second, I've seen squirrels with better attention spans than you."

Colt's reply was a long, rude yawn. "Docs said I got some kinda' 'disorder'. My old man's always harping on me about it."

"Hmm. How old are you, anyway, kid?"

"Just shy of thirty. You?"

"I'm good at asking questions, not answering them. Old enough, I'll tell you that."

The long haired fighter smiled. John Henry had no idea how'd he'd managed it, but somehow he suspected he'd just gotten this wild horse on his side. "You got a lot of spirit. What did you say your name was again?"

"John Henry. John Henry Iron. Nice to make your acquaintance."

Colt scrunched his face up. "Wait, John Henry like the guy from the folk tale?"

"I get that a lot, yeah..."

"Huh. Why haven't I heard about you before, spellbreaker? Would love to face you in a real ring!" He turned over. There was a boyishness enthusiasm about him. Like a puppy in the body of a battle-hardened warrior. "Well, once my wife finds out about this, it's over for sure...as if it wasn't already."

"Wife, huh? You got family?"

"Yeah. Wife and kid. My boy's name is Buck, and I tell you what, he's gonna grow up to be big and strong just like his old man! Well, that's if I get to keep seeing him..." He sighed. "I'm winning championships left and right but...I'm losing real bad at home, if that makes sense."

It did. John Henry lowered his head. "I get it. I don't really have family of my own. I'm a wandering man. Freelance laborer, part time spellbreaker, occasional inventor."

"Brain and brawn! Now that's a rare combo, J.H." Colt undid his ponytail, and toyed with a string of his long hair. "Wouldn't know what that's like, myself."

Didn't think so, John Henry thought. He hated thinking it, but removed from combat and bad decisions, Colt was almost likable. "Well, since we're being honest--let me ask you something, cowboy, how'd you doge the draft?"

Challenged, the cowboy sat up in bed, puffing out his chest. "Colt the Bolt doesn't dodge nuthin', so let's get that settled. My old man's got a farm. We had...exemptions."

John Henry raised an eyebrow. "I don't see you behind no plough, cowboy."

"I go back and help when I have to."

In other words, he'd used his daddy's privilege to stay out of the conflict, John Henry deduced. That touched a particular sore spot for J.H. but he decided it was best not to escalate tensions further.

"And how'd you avoid the draft?" Colt shot back.

"Didn't need to avoid it--no danger of being drafted in the first place." He held up his arm and pointed to it. "Not the right color for a white man's war. Could have volunteered, sure, but trust me when I say I had no interest in fighting their war either."

Colt looked kicked. His face fell. "I didn't know about stuff like that."

"I wouldn't expect you to."

"But I respect it." Colt said, standing up tall. John Henry almost fell over, trying to stable himself for another fight. "Yeah, I do! See, I love fighting...but killing? Not so much. I'm a lover, not a fighter. And you know something, Mr. Iron? You're too damn good for war. Seriously. You'd probably win it single-handedly, anyway, with that mean hook of yours!"

John Henry blinked. Oh Goddess, he's taken too many hits to the head, hasn't he?

"Well, thank you for the kind words, cowboy."

Colt walked over to the jail cell bars and gave them a once-over. "Your magick could probably bend these bars too, I reckon."

"It...could, yeah? What you getting at?"

Colt threw him a mischievous grin. "Or we could get the attention of the guard. Then, when he puts his hand on the bars I could run some voltage through 'em, and fry his ass up like an egg! Then, we steal his keys. Hit the pubs. Hit up some ladies. Get in another scrap--"

"And then what, cowboy? Suddenly, we're two fugitives with the whole of Louisiana law on our tails. And maybe you hadn't noticed, Tex, but I STAND OUT!"

Colt pouted. John Henry almost felt guilty having raised his voice. Almost. His eyes followed movement. Colt's shadow wavered in the light coming through the bars. Something was suddenly off here, and it wasn't just the storm magi's attitude. 

Just as John Henry went to open his mouth, Colt's shadow split in two. A dark shape emerged from the pool of solid black in the deviation, becoming three dimensional. Colt jumped back against the bars. "What in tarnation!"

An evil, hollow laugh filled the jail cell. The gelatinous darkness took form, the outline of a tall man in an even taller top hat. Two eyes burned red from the figure's sunken face.

"Good evening, cher," the dark voice said. "Quite a situation difficile you find yourselves in, non? Pity that, after making such short work of those two-penny oafs who think they know how to make shadows dance."

Colt, white as a sheet, looking like a frightened mouse, turned to John Henry. "...What the hell is this guy?"

The shadow figured giggled evily, circling Colt--through the bars, shifting from two dimensions to three and back again. "Ah, where are my manners? I am called 'The Rougarou'--the Viceroy of Voodoo, the King of the Undead, the dark spellbreaker who will end your--" the shadow stopped, finally noticing John Henry. His accent abruptly dropped. "Wait a gosh darn minute--John Henry? Is that you?"

John Henry rolled his eyes. It was official--he was now shared a cell with two of the most frustrating men in all of New Orleans. "Hey there, Clancy. How's the missis?"

Suddenly, the living shadow seemed a lot less intimidating. "Damn it, John! You gotta go and blow up my spot like this!"

Colt and John Henry stood side by side, their arms folded, as they interrogated the shadow magi--or rather, his projection. "What's this got to do with us?" John asked.

The shadow form quivered in the twilit glow through the grated window of the jailcell. He resumed his vaguely sinister persona. "An offer, mes amis. It is not everyday we get a spellbreaking champion and the metal ronin of the southern circuit together in the same place. One imagines fate may have brought you two-"

"Get to the point, Clancy," John Henry said, lowering his stare.

"It's Rougarou! And...very well. I propose a tag-team match. You two, versus my zombie assassins, Bruce and Romero. We shall bill it as a 'winner eats losers brains' match, with a $1,000 prize on the line. What say you, bonhommes?"

John Henry and Colt looked askance at each other. "A moment," John Henry said, taking Colt into a huddle. "This guy is nuts! He raises the dead and makes them fight as spellbreakers!"

Colt blinked. "Is that...legal?"

"It's New Orleans, fool; everything's legal." John Henry shook his head. "I'm thinking we use it as bail money."

Colt snapped his fingers. "Even better. I could use it to pay back Sandra for all the damages to her bar."

He making moves on Sandra? John Henry reared back. "Right...not a bad call, cowboy."

"But I don't want to eat no brains, John."

"We won't be eating brains, cowboy. That's what happens to us, if they win."

"I don't want to get my brains ate neither!"

Won't be much to eat if it's yours, John Henry thought. Besides, this idea was plain stupid. John looked over at the living shadow, now sitting cross-legged on the cot, filing its nails--or making a motion just like it. Clancy wasn't a voodoo doctor. He was a failed dentist from Ohio. But he was sneaky, and gifted in magick.

Mr. Iron considered his options. This long-haired, muscled idiot had been nothing but trouble since the moment John had laid eyes on him, and now he was proposing putting their literal brains on the line for a paltry $1,000. Then again, Sandra wasn't likely to talk to him ever again for all the hell he raised. Least he could do was set things right, replace a few tables, chairs, glassware, and move on to greener pastures once the debt was paid.

John Henry scratched his chin, in deep contemplation. This was a weird day, and he didn't do 'weird' well. It was one of the reasons he kept mostly to himself---other people were difficult to manage. Relationships even more so. For John, life was about doing the job and moving on. Win a fight, be gracious, stay humble, and keep low. This Colt character was anything but humble--and though the fight at the bar had gone well (in that they hadn't died) John Henry wasn't so sure he'd make a good partner in a proper spellbreaking brawl.

"You ever tag before, cowoy?"

Colt made a disgusted face. "You mean...share the spotlight?"

"Ok, that answers my question." John Henry nodded to the shadow, presently reclining in their bed. "Clar--I mean, Rougarou--"

"The Rougarou."

"We're gonna p--"

"We'll do it!" Colt said, throwing his arm out and pushing himself in front of John Henry. He was all storm and fury now. "You listen to me, shadow punk. Nobody--and I mean nobody--comes in here and threatens Colt the Bolt or his pals!"

John Henry scratched his head. Pal?

"So, bring on them zombie boys! I'll send them back to their graves real quick. Me, and this six-foot-seven, tall drink of water right here." He patted John Henry on the shoulder. "Look at him! He's all muscle and handsome as hell. Of course we'll make a badass tag team. We'll be the best this town has ever seen!" He put his hands out, as if he was visualizing a marquee. "Call us...the 'Kings of New Orleans'! Yeah, that's jazzy!"

The shadow clapped its hands together. "Great! It's settled." It slithered off the bed, reforming itself in the center of the room. "Such a show it will be, watching two handsome, muscular fighters get devoured in front of a live crowd! Hahahaha!" With that, the shadow faded into the aether on a peel of sinister laughter.

John Henry just rolled his eyes at the ostentatious display. Clarence was a two-bit necromancer who wouldn't know 'real' evil if the concept itself solidified and hit him upside the head. But that wasn't the issue here. The issue was Colt. John Henry leaned in, almost touching noses with the smug, scruffy brawler. 

"Did you just get us into more trouble, boy?"

"The best kind of trouble!" Colt said, over-enthusiastic as always. He pat John Henry on the shoulders. "We got this in the bag, friend! My lightning. Your metal magick. Besides, our opponents are literally dead, right?" He paused. The thought hadn't occurred to Colt that 'zombie' might just be a metaphor, or a gimmick. "R-r-right?"

Before John Henry could give Colt the proper tongue lashing he deserved, he heard the sound of clinking keys and oncoming footsteps. He jabbed his thumb towards the far wall. "Get back. Now. Chances are, he's not going to have any interest in what I have to say, so your words mean gospel. Tell him we didn't start the fight but were--"

"Just trying to defend Miss Sandra's honor," Colt said, absolutely serious. He nodded. "I know how these 'good ol' boys' work. I got your back."

And funnily enough, John Henry actually believed it. This Colt character was full of surprise, it seemed. 

The two men lined up side by side as the guard--a clean shaven, rather short fellow--knocked on the prison bars. He looked like any young guy you'd see at church service. John Henry thought he smelled like a 'rookie'. This was almost insulting...

The young man frowned. "Wait a gosh darn minute...didn't I hear another guy with you?" he asked. He had a sing-song voice. John Henry knew he or Colt could snap his neck in two. Something was amiss here...

The two men looked at each other. "Uh...no?"

"Hm," the cop shrugged. "Coulda swore I heard somethin'." With that, he took out his key ring and unlocked the door, even going so far as to open it cordially for them both. "Well, you two are free to go."

John Henry blinked, and subtly placed his hand on Colt's knee, telling him wordlessly not to move. "What?" It was a rare occasion when the law let him off this easily.

"Courtesy of Mr. DeLapour," the office nodded.

"I...I'm not familliar-"

"Yes, Mr. DeLapour." Colt slapped his hand against his forehead, as if he'd suddenly remembered. "Of course!"

He didn't remember; he was lying. Neither John Henry not the cop believed for a second that Colt knew the identity of this man in question. The officer explained. "City councilman DeLapour, that is. And, as it turns out, a notoriously bad driver. Seems you saved his and his fiancées lives yesterday during an unfortunate accident. He pulled some strings and...well...I just sorta do what I'm told around here. So, you're free to go. No bail, no nothin'" 

John Henry remembered back to what seemed a day ago, but was really just a few hours, when he'd rescued that couple from the overturned car. It was the incident that had kicked off this damn series of events that had landed him in jail. 

The officer continued. "That, plus we got testimony from the bar that you didn't start the fight, so much as ended it. We'd been after those Shadow Boys for awhile now, and we needed an excuse to pen them up. Far as we're concerned, you scratched our backs, now we're scratching yours." He lowered his head, looking at John Henry in particular. "I'd...just keep a low profile if I were you though."

"We'll take it!" Colt said, graciously. "Come on, let's mosey."

The cowboy was right. Best to say thanks and get out of here before these goons changed their mind. He gave the cop a gentle and polite nod, but didn't lower his guard until he and Colt were out of the station.

Unfortunately, John Henry knew that their predicament was far from over. He was saddled with this cowboy now, and they were about to have a mean fight on their hands...

Next Chapter!

Rage's Wrath

CW: Violence, sadism, non-consensual touching.

This story takes place a few months before Spike and Cian's first meeting at the Atlas Arena. Cian, signed recently to Firebird Pro Spellbreaking, has cut his teeth on a few matches and shows promise--but as with all newcomers, the boss wants to break him in (or just break him!). Unfortunately for Cian, there's one infamous heel for this job...or jobber, as it were!

It was a misty day in Glasgow, gray clouds hanging over tall spires of slate, and cobblestone streets still wet from morning rain. The river Clyde was high on the embankments, and an air of melancholic beauty permeated the Scottish city. Despite the somber mood, there was a strange electricity all around--not due to weather, but from the spectacle happening downtown in the football arena, which had been converted--for one night only--to a spellbreaking ring. Firebird Pro was in town for the night, and the locals were excited to see real, international talent duking it out.

Cian Enbarr, the newest recruit, stretched backstage in the locker room. Like all of Firebird's talent, he could trace his lineage to heroic or 'legendary blood', and he certainly looked it. While Cian wasn't from Glasgow (being from Ireland) he was the closest thing the city had to a local hero that night. He knew he had to live up to fan expectations. He'd certainly put in more hours at the gym as of recent for it. That much was apparent by his bulging quad muscles, which he flexed favourably in the mirror. Being of Celtic stock, Cian wasn't a tanned or bronze beefcake like most of his fellow hunks, but a pale, red-headed scrapper who freckled at the slightest touch of sunlight.

It was a bit narcissistic, getting any eyeful of himself, but Cian was starting to enjoy Firebird's brutal regiments and their...less publicly acceptable methods. Practices the International Spellbreaking Commission were not quite privy to just yet. Though Cian would never admit it, a fair dosage of alchemically-enhanced injections had turned him from a wiry, country boy into a beefcake within a few months. The downside, of course, was the effects to the moral functions of his brain, as any of the more sadistic team members of Firebird could tell you. In time, he would likely join their heelish ranks.

Still, a small sacrifice to pay for power. Bulky, compact, and looking like a house made of solid stucco, Cian still fancied himself a tough face more than a straight up heel anyway. Years of fighting on the streets and protecting his little brother, as well as a fair amount of combat training from hardy Travellers, had earned him a sharp edge. He was a born fighter, and the blood of the Celtic heroes of yore quite literally ran through his veins.

He admired himself in the mirror, taking in the results of Firebird's villainous work. Arms and biceps swollen, his body bulging (and in more than one place), and neck thick. His new, plain black singlet flattered him nicely where it counted. He was sure to turn a heard or two that night, least of all the head of whatever sucker they'd put up against him. Cian hoped it was a real villain, because it was always a fun time beating down the bad guys and winning the audience's hearts. Cian already considered himself a natural born hero, of course, he'd fought to protect the innocent and vulnerable for most of his life. It's what had put him on the path to power at all cost. But, he also didn't suffer fools or miscreants, punishing them harshly with his brutal leg-based submissions.

Getting heated up, Cian bounced up and down on his brand new wrestling shoes, watching proudly as his chest (and other assets) bounced with him. "Loving these new muscles, bad lad," he said to himself. Shit, he was gonna turn himself on if he kept this up! "Sure, I'll autograph that for ya." He'd even considered coming out in his tacky "Kiss Me, I'm Irish!" shirt that one of his Boston buddies had sent him as a joke. But that would be far too hammy for his persona.

Cian had been so caught up in his own image that he hadn't noticed the dark, shadowy presence sneaking up behind him. The  gaunt, bearded man with the creepy, unsettling large eyes was--for better or worse--Cian's boss. The company president, Simeon Grigorivich.

The man in the greasy, black pintail nodded to his young ward, even as Cian tried to hide the fact that his boss' aura made his blood run cold. "Good evening, Mr. Enbarr." The president ran a hand across the back of Cian's neck. "I see the lab's efforts have paid off...you are becoming quite the young stud. You remind me of a white stallion my family kept in our barn." He laughed, hollowly, under his breath. "We would sometimes loan him out...when the purpose suited us."

A cold chill rain up Cian's spine, as he imagined the implications. Mr. Grigorivich's methods were...unorthodox. "Thanks, sir. I am going to go out there and make you proud, I swear."

"Good," Grigorivich said. "I will accept nothing less. You do have much to prove, my handsome one. And you do want to prove yourself, don't you, mighty descendent of warriors?"

Cian tried putting on a brave face, even as doubt crept in. He turned to the mirror and flexed with confidence. "Nobody's gonna beat the Faeblood Brawler! I'll crush whatever clown you send my way. I don't care if you're making it a surprise opponent. He's good as pinned!" He jammed a thumb into his chest for emphasis.

"My, so cocky! Well, it shall certainly be a trial by...fire." Grigorivich grinned wickedly, looking at his reflection in the mirror (Cian was surprised the vampiric-looking man had a reflection at all). He handed Cian his cup of soma, making sure to put to his employee's lips. Cian moved his hands to take it, but Grigorivich wouldn't deprive himself of this simple, odd pleasure.

"Drink. Let me watch."

It was another unsettling habit of his, personally 'feeding' the milky white, iridescent fluid to his wards. He even made them keep eye contact the whole time. A dribble of soma fell from Cian's lips. Grigorivich made sure to wipe it away with his finger and place it into his own mouth, sucking it down to the hilt with relish.

I'm gonna be sick, Cian thought, trying to not look it.

Then, making sure no other competitors were present, Grigorivich removed the syringe from his lapel--the injector filled with strange, red fluid. It was yet another dubious product from Firebird's dubious arrangement with the alchemists.

Cian swallowed, nervously. "Again? Sir, don't you think that's too much this week? You know that stuff gives me...bad thoughts."

Grigorivich clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, chiding him. "Do not resist, my handsome one. I am only trying to make you bigger. Badder."

Grigorivich slid his index finger across Cian's round, protruding shoulder. When he was satisfied with the spot, he stuck the syringe in, watching the needle go in slow, enjoying as Cian made a small, pained sound.

"Does it make you feel stronger, my handsome?" He removed the needle.

Both Cian's head and body pulsed. He felt a hunger growing inside him, as his muscled throbbed, and his inhibitions momentarily vanished. He thought briefly of grabbing Grigorivich by the throat and smashing his face into the mirror. 

But no. His senses came back to him, though the sensation inside his head remained.

"Yes sir. It's...a rush!"

"Does it give you a stirring?" Grigorivich said, too close for comfort.

Cian shook his head. It was time to fight anyway--a good excuse to remove himself from his boss's advances. "I...I should go out there now, sir." He grabbed his towel and made his way to the backstage, eager to get this show on the road and get that much closer to the win.

Grigorivich watched him leave. "Go kill for me, my beautiful, Celtic bull." Once he was out of his sights, however, he turned his head to the massive figure watching him from the nearest locker, the ominous presence that had been standing there the whole time. He had remained out of sight, just as told.

The watcher emerged. A hulking (and achingly handsome) South Asian man in a white, theatrical robe that concealed his body. He had long, raven-dark hair and intense eyes, and his appearance suggested a strange contradiction of aloof coldness and inner heat. 

Vahni Rage, Firebird's champion, licked his lips as he set eyes on his new prey.

Grigorivich held up his hand. "Do not break him tonight. Not completely. He is...useful to us."

Rage snorted. "Aw, come on! Let me have my fun."

But Grigorivich was serious--he had lost prospective newcomers to Rage's unbridled, underhanded fighting style before. "No permanent damage," he said, as if admonishing an unruly hound. "And no branding." He tapped his forehead for emphasis.

Rage growled, and then went for the lunge. He grabbed his boss' shirt, bringing him close. 

Grigorivich didn't flinch. He was the only one who never did. "Then you owe me a new chewtoy, boss."

"Come with me to New York," Grigorivich said, gently removing Rage's hand from his lapel. "I hear Ms. Montez is debuting some beautiful boys. If the other heels don't crush them first, then perhaps I will let you pick out a new plaything."

For both of their sakes, Rage relented. "Heheheh. The prettier the better."

"That being said, dearest Vahhni, my ember, please give Mr. Enbarr the standard Firebird introduction." He leaned in closer, and smiled. "Make him fear for his life."

A bloodlust appeared behind Rage's eyes, and the ambient temperature around the two men rose drastically. "Even better. I will make him fear for his soul."

Chapter 3 - Roommate Rumble!

“What’s that say?”

Spike pointed above the dresser drawer at the wall scroll, black ink in sweeping, elegant kanji. All and all, Kengo and Spike’s dorm room was tiny—made even smaller due to Kengo’s size—and minimally furnished, with two desks, two chairs, a shared wardrobe, and a bunkbed to fill things out. The wall scroll was the only personal object in the room, minus some toiletries on the shelf.

Kengo tugged his bathrobe chord around his formidable waistline and nodded to the piece of art. He still smelled like citrus from his long shower. “It says 'Aonuma Shrine',” he said calmly. “That is my temple back home.”

“Temple?

“Yes. I was raised in a temple. We are spirit summoners.” He said this matter-of-factly, and with great, glowing pride. It was the first time Spike had seen Kengo smile. He hoped it would not be the last.

The concept was beyond Spike, but he was intrigued. “My teacher said that magick was different all over the world. I guess how you would have learned is it different than me, huh?

“Mmmm.”

Kengo was a man of few words, and Spike attributed this his shyness. It was hard to imagine a big, hunky bear like that as someone lacking in confidence, but Spike didn’t push it.

He’d had his fill of tacos from the cantina, and now his body desired sleep. Fortunately, Kengo seemed inclined towards rest as well. Navigating new roommates was always a bit of awkward push-and-pull, and it was apparent to Spike that Kengo was more of an introvert. A bit like pulling teeth, Spike thought, frowning.

Kengo spoke with sweeping gestures, and Spike suspected this was due to his concerns over language barrier. Though his accent was pronounced, his English was perfect, Spike thought. The big, handsome bear pointed to the bunkbed and then to Spike. “Top or bottom?”

“Both.” Spike blinked. “Oh, you mean the bed? Ummm…top, I guess.”

“Good,” Kengo said. He scratched his head. “I am very big. I would be afraid to be on the top, just in case it breaks and I end up crushing my small roommate.”

“I am not that small,” Spike said. And to illustrate this—and because he was literally about to crawl into bed—Spike removed his night shirt. Pale abs and pecs even more luminous under the utilitarian halogen lightning.

Kengo’s face filled up red. “S-SPIKE!” He averted his eyes. “You cannot just DO that!”

“What, take off my shirt?” Mischief crossing his mind, Spike removed his sweatpants. Clad in baby blue briefs, he turned hips, getting a good look at himself in the full-length mirror attached to the wall.

“AHH!” Kengo turned fully around. “You….you sleep naked?”

“Oh yeah, I did when I was in the Navy. Hahaha. My housemates used to call me ‘kickstand’ because—"

“Hnnnngggggg” Kengo crouched over. “S-s-say no more! I sleep in my fundoshi but not usually when other guys are around.”

Spike frowned. “Hey, I don’t have any issues with nudity, but I’ll keep my underwear on if you want. Why so shy about it? You look like…well…a god.” Now it was Spike’s turn to blush.

Kengo flinched, but Spike thought he saw him turn his head slightly around. “Which one?”

“What do you mean?”

“In Japan there are many gods. Some beautiful, some ugly, some strange.”

“Oh! Well...uh...you would have to be the beefiest, hunkiest one there is!"

Kengo cupped his hands to his face. “R-really?”

“Mhmm! Hey, and if you’re a bit self-conscious about body issues…well…you’re in good company. Because...well...so am I.” Spike shrugged, deciding it was best to climb up the ladder to his bunk. He laid down and stared at the popcorn ceiling.

“I have always felt not as handsome as some other spellbreakers,” Kengo said, still with his back turned. "Like my friend Rai, back home. He has so many muscles, and his pants look like they are painted on!"

I would like to know more about this...Rai, Spike thought. But, he decided to focus on the mutual exchange. “I’m starting to feel very small and not as muscular,” Spike replied. "The guys here are huge."

“But…you have the abd…” Kengo tripped over his words. “The six pack! And the pectorals. And the arms.”

“It’s easy for us shorties to look muscular. I’d rather be a big hunky bear like you!”

“Oh really?” Kengo turned around, at last, and gave Spike a big, happy grin. “Well, thanks. It seems we are both worried about our bodies. It is nice for someone to understand me. Hmm. I noticed you also have a tattoo on your back.”

“Oh, my tramp-stamp anchor? Yeah, when you’re in the navy and you cross the equator, it’s a tradition to get one. I just decided to go for the sluttiest placement!”

“Hmm. My tattoo is perhaps, not as ‘slut’—as you would say. But it is very traditional.”

“You have one too? Whaaat." Spike rolled over on to his side and propped his head up with his arm. "Are we back tattoo buddies?”

Kengo swallowed. “I…could...maybe...show you?”

“Only if you’re comfortable.”

“You are a comfortable person,” Kengo said. He sighed, then undid his bathrobe, letting his robe fall to his waistline.

Spike marvelled at the artistry, and suddenly felt a bit of tattoo envy. “Kengo, buddy, that’s a work of art!

“Th-thank you,” Kengo said, quickly doing his robe back up. “It took a long time. It was very painful. But it was important...because that tattoo is my spirit partner.”

“Spirit partner?” Spike wasn’t sure he understood. In any case, Kengo had crawled into the bed below him, vanishing from view. Spike heard the bed creak and then a sigh, with Kengo’s robe falling to the ground shortly thereafter. Oh yeah—can’t be naked if you’re under blankets, now, can you Kengo? Truly, Spike was outmatched by intelligence.

“I will show you what I mean tomorrow tomorrow. We have drills with Colt.” He yawned deeply. “They are…intense.”

Getting drilled by Colt was probably not going to be as fun as it initially sounded in Spike’s head. “Hm. I can only imagine.” Couldn’t be worse than training sessions with Mr. Iron though…could it?

Kengo flicked the light switch, casting them into deep darkness. Back in New York, you could count on light pollution to illuminate a room just a little but. Out here in the country? It was pitch black. And quiet. Spike didn’t like it. He’d been exhausted all day but now, of course, his body didn’t want to sleep...

He rolled over and faced the wall, trying to push away the fear of falling out of the bed in the middle of the night and cracking his pretty, blonde head on the tile floor. He resorted to an old trick of his. “The USS Merlin. The USS Circe. The USS Alcina. The HMS Morgana. The RM Prospero. The HMS Sarastro. The Night Queen.”

“Huh? What are you saying, Spike?”

Great, he probably thinks I’m a fuckin’ maniac now. “Er…it’s something I sometimes do to help me get to sleep. I go over the names of some of the ships I know. Most naval ships are named after famous sorcerers and sorceresses.” He pressed his head into his pillow and decided that the mess hall tacos weren’t sitting well with him. “My brain is…busy.”

“Ah. It is the same with ships in Japan. Our head priest’s brother was stationed on the Abe-No-Seimei.”

“Neat,” Spike said, absently. He remembered then that Japan had been divided during the war, with some favoring the anti-Alban forces, and others siding with the Empire. It would probably be uncouth to ask Kengo what side his temple fought for. Spike had ported briefly in Yokohama but hadn’t seen much of Japan while he was there (had some great sake though). All he knew is that when it came to magick, Japan was proficient in spiritual matters and divination. Supposedly, there were those there who could call favor from the gods if they willed it.

Kengo was out like a light within minutes. Spike knew this because the snoring that followed was enough to make him grab his pillow and cover his own face to block out the sounds. 

“Mmmmmnnggggggg.” Spike groaned into the stuffing. Suddenly that dingy apartment in New York with its bare mattress on the floor was much more appealing. This was definitely going to be an adjustment.

Spike hope the snoring would subside, but it sounded instead as if an additional layer had been added to the cacophony. Spike took the pillow off his face and listened closer, just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. Sounded like the low growl or rumble of some great beast, just beneath Kengo’s murmurs and exhalations. Spike even considered poking his head over the corner of the bed just to make sure some night demon hadn’t crawled into bed with his roommate. Demons don’t exist in Texas, do they? …Do they?

Eventually, Spike sat back and decided sleep would seek him out in its own time. Why did I think spellbreaking life would be more glamorous than this?