Chapter 4: The Night Before

Spike couldn’t sleep.

He’d lived in the studio apartment for about three weeks now. Varla, who seemed to have her manicured fingers in almost every local business, helped him find it. It was a studio over an old tailoring shop in a crumbling pre-war tenement. It did the job. Spike had no roommates, of course, just himself. And after bunking with other men for several years straight, it was kind of nice to have a place of one’s own, even though these days it felt like living inside a sauna thanks to the summer heat.

Still, he had never felt really lonely until tonight. Tossing and turning in his threadbare mattress (no point in owning a bed frame), he toiled over all the ways tomorrow could go wrong.

He hadn’t bothered to decorate the apartment. Most of Spike’s life had been transitional thus far, so why harbor any illusions over settling into a home? A cot on a slanted flooring. A radiator. A kitchen with cracked tiles and no hot water. A porcelain bathtub. And a bag full of his old sailor things. If he needed something, the burnt out shop downstairs provided it. Apparently, the owners had abandoned most of their equipment, and the wiring didn’t work well, so the landlord hadn’t managed to turn it into a new retail space yet. Spike wondered what had happened to the previous occupant.

He hadn't invited any would-be suitors back to his place yet, either, which was probably for the best. Any hunk would take one look at the dump and run out before Spike could even turn on the charm. It was the longest he'd gone out with touch for awhile. He was in withdrawals now, men being his drug of choice. He promised himself that when he was a full-time spellbreaker, he'd be swimming in hunks, so it would all pay off. 

Sleepless, Spike resigned himself to string of consciousness, parade of intrusive thoughts. All attempts at sleep were thwarted when thoughts inevitably circled back to his impending match. All he knew was his opponent’s name—Ryan Hartley, AKA the Killer Quarterback. He had a football gimmick, apparently. Sounded like a real bully. Someone the audience would want to see squash a pretty boy. Oh well, maybe he was cute at least...

I want to be a bully, Spike thought. Which wasn’t true, of course; he just wanted to be tough. After idolizing Colt for so many years, it just wasn’t in his blood to pursue the villain’s path. Plus, it seemed stressful. Nor did he think he looked good in the dark color schemes of heel type character.

Spike rubbed his eyes and pivoted off the mattress. Sleep had eluded him, and now he was just wasting time. He sat in the ambient light from the street lights outside, listening to the sound of distant cars and the whale-songs of sirens. Eventually, he went over to the video cassette player Varla had loaned out to him for the purpose of studying moves. As if he could afford one on his own right now. New technology was expensive anyway.

The rookie fumbled through the stacks of tapes marked with moves, looking for the few matches he’d requested. Varla was happy to oblige, provided he didn’t ‘use them for any lascivious purposes’, whatever that meant.

Spike found the right tape—“Colt the Bolt vs Chief Thunderbird”, and then proceeded to wrestle with an entirely new opponent, the TV set. He held the tape in his hands and glared down at it and the buttons on the player. How did this damn thing work.

"Hmm. Didn't think they'd be inventing those til a few years from now..."

Spike blinked and looked around the room? Had that been a random voice, or did he just hear something. Great, the apartment's haunted too. He shook his head, deciding that the lack of sleep was making him delirious, and shoved the tape into the player. After a few stuttered attempts, he got it to work. The projector’s motor whirred to life, and a square of luminous white appeared on the TV set, causing a wayward cockroach to scuttle off back into the shadows.

The footage was grainy and jumpy and not at all high quality, and it was the same with the audio. But any time spent studying Colt’s moves was worth the shoddy playback. By now, Spike knew that his fighting style and Colt’s were entirely different, if mostly because their body types and magick—or glyphs, as John Henry and Varla called it—were too distinct. Colt was a big boy, all muscle and technique. He favored holds and power moves, plus his mastery over lightning and electricity was versatile—either channelled in the form of projectiles or used as a compliment to a hold technique. Spike could not so easily ‘zap’ his opponents. He was a high flyer, and if the last few days of intense training had taught him anything, it was that he would have made a half-decent gymnast in a previous life. Now that he’d gotten over flipping and turning himself upside down, he was confident that he could manoeuvre his way around the ring and prioritize speed. That, plus building up his energy stores from sustaining hits, were his keys to victory.

If victory was in the cards.

Spike had seen this match before. It wasn’t one of Colt’s best. Sometimes, even heroes lost. Not that Chief Thunderbird was villain at all, of course. As Spike had gotten older and started seeing more of the world, he'd started growing uncomfortable with the stereotypes of some these old spellbreaker matches. The feds seemed to lean on people’s ethnicities and backgrounds as gimmicks, which turned Spike’s stomach, mostly because he was terrified that Varla would make him ‘sissy’ himself up to fit the look. Thankfully, she hadn’t offered that direction. Unfortunately, she hadn’t offered much direction at all, telling Spike not to worry about building a character for himself for his debut match.

I.e. she fully accepted him to ‘job’—make the other guy look good by essentially losing spectacularly. Spike wasn't shy about getting down with a bit of humiliation, but not in this circumstance—especially when there was no payoff or benefit to his own.

Anyways, Thunderbird was another handsome stud. Bulkier than Colt, he was Lakota man with thick slabs of muscle and a nice fitting loincloth (neither culturally accurate or appropriate, Spike figured). He was Handsome, naturally, with hair pulled back into a ponytail—like his opponent. 

For Spike, this was what spellbreaking was all about—two titans in their prime, showcasing their brawn and their spellwork. No storyline. No hero vs villain. Just two powerhouses who respected each other’s craft, going at it to see who was the best. Unfortunately, in this instance, it wasn’t Colt. Varla had suggested Spike watch this match for him to study the strengths and weaknesses of magic, but Spike—who would be the first to admit his own obliviousness—suspected she derived a bit of sadistic satisfaction over it. Seeing an attractive stud get his ass kicked? Spike couldn’t blame her. But he was protective over Colt.

Despite this lightning-tinged namesake, Thunderbird's glyph was “Kathon”. Earth magick, in other words. 

Colt started off strong of course, as always. While Spike was still green to learning the art of spellbreaking, he was pretty damn sure he could teach a whole crash course on the Cowboy King. Though Colt never started a match the same way twice, any avid fan could tell you he approached his ring work with a mixture of strikes and vitality-draining holds to wear down his foe, before he went all in with the magick.

Thunderbird used his size and mobility to command the arena. It was hard to imagine someone more muscular and athletic than Colt, who was built like a Greek god. But Thunderbird was a tank. No prettyboy abdominals here, but a hard gut, a barrel chest, and legs the size of oak trees. Spike had a weakness for muscles, and it felt like he was two-timing on Colt a little by watching his opponent, but he had to admit—Thunderbird was a contender.

It had been a pretty even, give-and-take match til midway through, just at the point when Spike assumed Colt would start go bring the storm. He never got the chance. The Chief was a very smart combatant. He hadn’t even used his magick at all, relying instead on his own brute strength, even when Colt got a bit too friendly with his electric strikes. Perhaps Colt, always humble, got a bit too cocky. As Colt ran to deliver a punch to Thunderbird's massive chest, the earth magi conjured up all the dust kicked up from the match, held outdoors. He had chosen the right moment. The particles of earth fused together into the vague shape of wings, both the size of automobiles. Controlling the earth with his own formidably sized arms, the spellbreaker in the loin cloth clapped the earthen vice around poor Colt. Insulated against using his electricity, the strong spellbreaker couldn’t muscle his way out of an earthen tomb. He was forced to submit or be crushed like a beer-can.

Spike ejected the tape. He didn’t need to see the outcome, nor watch his idol in a rare moment of defeat. Felt like bad luck somehow. Still, Spike had to admit that Thunderbird's technique was beautiful in its execution. The matchup, as well, was a crowd draw. Both Colt and Thunderbirds were billed as heroes. And Spike wanted to believe either fellow was magnanimous enough not to keep any bad blood between them.

But this taping was from over a decade ago. Spike hadn’t kept up with pro spellbreaking in recent years, due to his service commitments, but he’d heard Colt had retired earlier than expected, while he was still very much in his prime. That never made sense to Spike. The man was a living god. Perhaps a championship was enough, and he’d just gotten out while it was still good. He had inklings that John Henry and Colt may have crossed paths, or even locked up, but he'd save the questions for after the match.

If he was still alive to ask them, that is.

With a heavy, exhausted sigh, Spike attempted to clear the palette with a match he was far less attached to, a recent taping from Okami Association, a spellbreaking fed from Japan. Japanese feds held a special place in Spike's heart. They were unpretentious yet devoted to craftsmanship, happy to mix a bid of camp and goofiness and color into their fights. Plus, many of their divisions had spirit summoners on their roster, which was a whole other world (literally).

With a higher quality recording and crisp image, it was easy to tell this was a newer match, but it looked like it was already underway (or more like Spike had forgotten to rewind the tape). One fighter was a shredded little punk in green tights and a white mohawk--a nice bit of flair that Spike appreciated. A ghostly serpent intertwined around his wrist, suggesting he was a summoner. These matches were always so damn fascinating, Spike thought. The spellbreakers would often use their spirits like tag partners, or even as extended appendages or weapons depending on their skill. The concept was far over Spike's head, but he didn't care. It just looked plain awesome.

Old snake boy (whose name Spike hadn't caught due to the whole shebang playing out in medias res) was a handsome, scrappy little cutie, but Spike had eyes trained on his opponent, a beefy sumo-looking guy around Spike's age who entered the ring in nary but a white jacket (very fashionable) and a blue, little fundoshi with a golden bear claw stitched--perhaps too provocatively--over the crotch. The young man had a very handsome face and a hefty belly. If Spike had to guess, maybe a year or two older than him at most.

Now, when it came to the male sex, Spike's tastes were diverse. The only thing shallow about Spike was his brain, not his preferences. He liked scrawny, younger guys and muscle daddies alike. But he had a very soft spot (or hard) for guys with plenty of meat on their bones. The bigger the belly, the closer to Heaven. Show the Sailor Boy a bear, and he suddenly became a cub.

When the handsome sumo removed his coat--with an even more endearing shyness--and showed off his thick belly and pecs, Spike's eyes went all heart shaped.

"Him...him BIG," Spike said aloud in his apartment, salivating over the thick slice of Wagyu beef on his TV set. Thankfully, the staff at the NHK had subtitled the spellbreaker's name in both Japanese and English, so Spike was able to put a name to his new object of desire: Kuma Kengo. Spike couldn't do long division, but his travels had instilled with him a few basic linguistics, and he knew enough Japanese that Kuma meant 'bear'.

In an instant, Spike had gone from horrified to horny.

Sadly, Spike didn't know enough Japanese to understand the commentators, but it apparently didn't matter. This one was a bit of a one-sided squash match. Spike noted his new crush's gorgeous tattoo on his broad back--a very monstrous looking sun bear. Must be his spirit summon, Spike thought, knowing enough about how summoncraft worked.

Kuma tossed his opponent to the ground with a sumo-throw, beautifully executed. Before his dazed, snakey opponent could get up, the big bear sealed the deal with a heavy leg drop. The painful yell from Kuma's opponent--or victim--made even Spike wince. This big boy didn't even need to activate his summon to clean up house! 

The commentator's dialogue hit a crescendo as Kengo climbed the ropes, and Spike's eyes widened in the dark. "Oh no, he's not going to flatten him like okonomiyaki, is he?" 

But who was he kidding? He hoped he would. That was one of the few other blessings of soma, you didn't have to feel guilty about seeing a guy get his body flatted by a beefy bear--you knew he was going to walk away from that ring alright. Probably...

Sure enough, and without any fanfare, Kengo initiated a terrifying bonzai style drop onto his poor, suffering opponent, squashing him under his barely covered posterior and likely flattening him to the canvas.

Spike sighed. "God, I wish that were me." He didn't need to see the rest, even as Kengo smiled shyly at the camera while his poor, squirming opponent struggled beneath him. Spike shut the TV off, and sighed.

He sat in the dark, more awake than ever. This was hopeless. Rather than succumb to his own fears, he distracted himself again, this time by picking up one of the books Varla had assigned to him.

There were whole universities and wings of the military dedicated to wielding magick. Most spellbreakers had the luxury of training in physical combat and magical combat separately, with years devoted to either side of the art. Spike had crammed both, unevenly, in little under a month. He felt like he was years behind other spellbreakers in his class, and woefully unprepared for tomorrow’s match.

They’re throwing me to the sharks on purpose, Spike assumed. Varla would probably just tell him, “Hey, that’s business, kiddo.”

Spike didn’t want to let the anger and frustration get to him before his opponent did, so he flipped through the text on glyphs. He wanted to understand his own, as nobody in his twelve years since coming into his power had ever thought it decent to instruct him in controlling his unpredictable abilities.

Technical terminology was not Spike’s strong suit, and the descriptions included in the guide were a tad dense. Thankfully, as a child, he had developed a pretty good vocabulary thanks to—what else—his isolation from the other boys. All that time spent alone meant plenty of stuff to read, and the nuns were always willing to supply him with books (carefully filtered for content, of course) to keep him satisfied. He wondered now if that was, in part, because they feared being able to control his power. Then again, thinking back to it now, the Sisters of St. Magnus were scarier than some heavy weight pro spellbreakers…

Which is all to say that it was a tough read, but Spike had the tools and the determination to make meaning of it. He traced his finger around the lines making up the glyph of ‘Dynamis’, a kind of cross-shaped symbol partially made up of interlocking arrows.

He compared the illustration with a microscopic photo taken from the tissue sample of a contributing magi. It looked much the same just more…’sciency’ as Spike deemed it. Cellular. Apparently, the glyphs contained within humans mirrored the runes and glyphs scrawled by magi from cultures and civilizations all around the world, and there was some correlation between the two that modern science was still attempting to comprehend. Spike recalled what John Henry had told him about magick being shaped by cultures, and how it was infinitely more complex than anything a tome could tell him.

"The glyph ‘Dynamis’, often translated into standard American English as ‘Force’. In Greco-Roman myth, it was often considered the gift of the god Herakles. Other civilizations ascribed similar deities to its station. In astrology, it is assigned to the signs of both Aries and Leo."

Spike giggled. He was a Leo. Maybe this was destiny?

"Among the population of magi, it expresses itself in 10 – 15 % of these groups, yet seldom manifests as a Class A magic. Magi who express this glyph can conjure up forces related to energy, inertia, and bend some rudimentary physics to their will. It has manifested in magi as:

- Feats of profound strength excelling the muscle mass or relative size of its host.

- The ability to direct or redirect force, energy, and increase or decrease intertia in moving objects.

- The ability to create barriers of energy to deflect or diminish the velocity of moving objects.

- To accumulate energy within the host, usually as a result of external trauma or force, and then release it through physical movement or expelled energy.

- To increase the cellular and hormonal output (i.e. cortisol, adrenaline) of other organisms, provided they contain a nervous and/or pituitary an/or pulmonary system.

- To enhance cellular activity, possibly through mitochondrial pathways." 

What the hell is a ‘mitochondrial pathway’? The book might as well have been written entirely in ancient Greek. Still, Spike understood about half of it, which was more than he expected. It still didn’t offer much in the way of guidance, such as learning how to control his powers, but it was a start. He also learned that glyphs were passed down from parentage (even if only one of the parents was a magi). If a child inherited the same glyph as a parent, it was usually through their mother, however it might manifest differently depending on the father’s magical capabilities.

Spike didn’t remember much about his parents. They had been killed during the Sweep of Toscana during the Battle of the Alchemists in Italy. From one faded photograph Spike kept on him, he knew his mother had been pretty, with dark hair. She was a bit on the short side. She had started the war as a singer, but when it was found that her vocal abilities quite literally gave the soldiers strength, she was promoted to a supporting officer in the magi ranks. Spike’s father had been a quiet yet strong man, and Spike suspected he'd gotten his hair from his father, whose hair was platinum white as a by-product of his glyph. His magick lay in the healing arts. Letters that were currently in the family lockbox had indicated he had never felt quite comfortable with his gifts, which were largely seen as the domain of nurses and women. Still, it was through the medical field that he had met his wife. Spike had been an unexpected but welcome gift, shortly after their unexpected but welcome marriage. They were both supposed to return home before the treaties were signed. Toscana, a tragedy and a horror, was one of the last great battles at the terminus of the war.

Spike didn’t do grief. He’d much rather get in the ring with a monster than face that opponent. Yet, his brief memories of his parents were welcome ones.

He suspected his mother had the ‘Dynamis’ glyph, but there were no records, or at least none that were accessible to him. Perhaps St. Magnus held them. It wasn’t exactly something he wanted to dwell on, but he was at least curious.

He shut the book. He didn’t expect his sleepless night to lead him towards reflecting on his past, and even worse, he had little to show for it. He looked over at this gym bag, frowning at the plain blue trunks and boots he’d chucked carelessly on top of it. They were boring. There was nothing that stood out about them, or suggested a spellbreaking icon in the makin. Varla had told him all about ‘paying his dues’, and while there was some sense to that, it all felt as if he was being set up for failure.

Sleep wasn’t coming on any time soon, and if there was one thing Spike loathed, it was feeling like circumstances were outside his control. Fate had dictated so much of his life, for good or ill, up to this point. And just when he felt the universe was throwing him a bone, it looked like the good fortune was about to be snatched away.

Clad in his rabbit-print boxer briefs (of which he would never be caught dead wearing by any lover) Spike paced the room, trying to wrap his head around tomorrow. The floor creaked under his foot. The radiator creaked. The empty apartment offered no answers—yet, as Spike’s eyes travelled aimlessly between his spellbreaking gear (his future) and his suitcase full of old navy garb (his past), he started wondering if the downstairs portion of the building might hold some secrets.

It was a miracle the old business hadn’t been looted; the window smashed. The previous owner had the foresight to newspaper the display windows, which filtered in moonlight through old articles about new business developments, market fluctuations, and appliance advertisements. Between this eerie lightning and the husks of discarded mannequins and drapery racks, Spike wasn’t keen on lingering for very long among the dusty boxes of discarded fabric.

“Place is a fire trap,” he mumbled in the dark, trying not to think about ghosts. He had never run into one before (thankfully) but he’d heard all sorts of spooky stories about them while travelling at sea.

"For a spellbreaker, you really need to grow some backbone..."

Spike wasn't sure if he'd thought that himself, or he was hearing things again. He decided he was just chiding himself as a he walked over to an abandoned sewing machine, caked with dust. He blew it away, like dandelion seed, and in the process must have disturbed an errant mouse hiding in the corner, as the poor creature darted from behind the sales desk.

Spike was glad John Henry wasn’t there to hear the noise he made as a result, nor Sister Patience, for whom would have silenced him for a whole month if she heard the string of curses spilling out of his mouth. It would have made for quite a sight to any outside observer, this angel-haired man with a swimmer’s build nearly running through the air to escape a single rodent. Spike grabbed the sewing machine and high tailed it back to his dingy quarters.

He threw the heavy sewing machine onto the kitchen counter, already cracked. Besides this and the bed, he had no other furniture to speak of. Thankfully, he had been raised by nuns and sailors alike, and therefore didn’t escape his youth without learning to mend or sew fabric—be it pants, ship canvas, or what have you. Design had always intrigued Spike. But by way of the masculine-controlled world of the military, it had been strongly discouraged.

Lucky for spike there was bobbin of blue fabric still wound to the machine.

Spike picked up his old sailor’s pants, his shirt with the nautical stripes, collar, and ascot, and looked at his old uniform like it was the first time he’d ever laid eyes on them before. He threw them onto the counter, and then picked up the plain, boring trunks Varla had tossed to him, like a up-level businessmen throwing a coin at a beggar. He placed them over the nautical striped section of his shirt, picked up a tape measurer (also acquired from downstairs) and began to measure the pair of trunks against the fabric. A lightbulb--tragically underutilized--went off in the dusty, vacuous recesses of Spike’s mind.

He decided that, if he was going to be utterly squashed tomorrow, he might as well go out in style...

Next Chapter!