Chapter 5: Locker Room Heat

The glittering skyscrapers and skyways of Manhattan scrolled past the glass elevator, held aloft by two bronze angels. Spike, nearly pressing his face against the glass in wonderment, suddenly felt like a little kid again. For most of his life, he had only seen New York from beneath its long shadow and its impossibly tall towers. Now, all of that was shrining beneath his feet as the glass elevator carried both him and John Henry, dressed sharply in a well-tailored suit and tie.

Spike’s trainer had made him wear the nearly same, even though the fledgling spellbreaker argued that he'd be spending most of the night near-naked. John Henry insisted that if Spike was going to be taken seriously as a fighter, he needed to dress like a gentleman, especially around the upper-tier crowd. They were on a different level now, and they needed to dress like the people who lived here, above the rest of the lot.

Spike felt like that was pandering, but he wasn’t about to argue with a man who had a lifetime of spellbreaking experience. He looked down at his gear bag. He might as well have been carrying a live bomb. Stage fright didn’t even begin to cut it, and either he was doing a great job hiding it from J.H., or the man knew and didn’t want to say anything.

The shoulder and profile of one of the city’s stone colossi, holding up a skyway in the manner of Atlas, loomed outside the window. Spike examined the stone giant and asked, “Where’s Varla?”

The pause between question and answer was slight, but notable. “She’s where she needs to be,” J.H. said plainly. It was just the two of them in the elevator, and they could speak freely. “She’s probably up there in the arena, charming the right people, greasing the right palms. Remember, she has a business to run.”

Though it should come as no surprise, Varla’s lack of investment in Spike’s success still stung. “And we’re just assets to her.” Or maybe I’m just being a baby.

“I’ve never thought so,” John Henry said. “You think someone like me would agree to do all this and be friends with a woman like that if she were really as cut-throat as you think? She’s a performer, like us. It’s an act.”

“You’re really friends with her?”

“Of course!” The lights from the skyscrapers danced across John Henry’s face. They paled in comparison to his smile. “My wife and her get along like partners in crime. Hell, she even sometimes watches Laura, Varla’s kid.” He looked quickly askance, wide eyed. “Oh God, she told you about Laura, right?”

“Yeah, don’t worry!” A moment of levity in another intense situation. Spike welcomed it, and his coach’s warmth.

“These relationships aren’t all transactional. Spellbreaking can be a lonely life, Spike. You need a family. Not always the one you’re born with.”

“Well, that’s not exactly a problem for me,” Spike said. He eyed the chandelier hanging over head. It swayed gently with the momentum of the elevator. “I guess this is probably a bad time to ask, but what makes someone quit spellbreaking? Did you ever want to go back?”

“Ha!” John Henry shook his head. “Ain’t no way. I got enough prize money to fund my restaurant, keep that afloat, get comfortable, and make sure my family was taken care of. Spike, I have everything I could want. I don’t need to look back. Now, as for you. I sense something different about your path. I think this matters more than money. I think you’re chasing glory, kid. And trust me, it's a dangerous and addicting pursuit.”

He was likely right. Spike caught glimpses of his own reflection, between shadows and stations. This suit was an awkward fit. The gear inside the bag was his real uniform.

“It’s not easy for guys like us,” John Henry went on. Odd to see him so introspective, especially on a night like tonight. “Black. Queer. Foreign. Different struggles, but still struggles all the same. I think it’s no surprise you and I were born fighters.”

Now Spike had begun nurturing a new fear—disappointing this sweet, strong man. Positive male influences in his life were few and far between, and though he never gave much thought to armchair self-diagnosis, it had occurred to him that admiration of larger-than-life heroes (such as certain lightning wielding cowboys) had served as a replacement for the absence of a real father (who, by all accounts, was quite the hero in his own way). Though he suspected John Henry was fully aware of Varla’s intentions to teach Spike a rough lesson in losing, the idea of getting crushed and wasting all of John Henry’s investment in him…well, it just didn’t sit right. He couldn’t let the guy down! If anything, the match meant more than a win, it meant validation.

Why am I doing this? Spike thought. A childhood dream? The pursuit of victory, of fame? Attention? He didn’t know. He had never considered himself a fighter, though he did fight well enough...

“It’s hard to stay 'good 'when everyone always expects you to lose,” Spike admitted. It was probably ‘unmanly’ to admit that, especially for a spellbreaker, but this seemed like one of those rare moments in time when any bared feeling was free from judgment.

The man looked down at him. Spike wasn’t sure what thoughts and appraisals lurked behind his eyes. “Do you think you’re a good man, Spike?”

“To be honest, I feel more like a boy than a man.” All of this felt like pretend to him still, like playing pretend or dress-up. In many ways, both the orphanage and the navy had coddled him, not by making his life an easier, but by shielding him from the world outside the walls of home and ship. “I mean, I am a fighter, yes, but I’m not out for blood. So, to answer your question, sir, I think I try an awful lot to be good. Not sure I am there yet though.”

John Henry nodded, and went to say something, but the elevator slowed to a stop. He let the idea go, whatever it was. “So, you’re gonna be a babyface, huh? Well, who knows, boy--maybe we’ll make a heel out of you yet!” He ruffled his charge's hair and motioned for him to step outside into the embrace of evening.

    __

A crosshatch of spotlight beams reflected off the awning of Hightown Manhattan’s Atlas Arena, a skyhigh colosseum towering over the lower city, nearly a mile below Spike and John Henry’s feet.

The tow men walked a stretch of gilded avenue, a promenade wide enough to accommodate the flow of well-dressed foot traffic making way for the grand arena archway. Bronze lions in mid-attack served as lamplight along the avenue. Spike’s fears were immediately chased away this strange and intoxicatingly beautiful world of the elite. It was a grandeur far removed from dingy Brooklyn, or the rusting ship in which he had dwelt these past few years. Spike was tempted to look over the edge of the guardrail, to see how far one could fall, but a wave of nausea steered him away from curiosity.

The adults and children walking alongside John Henry and Spike had not a care in the world. Spike envied them. He felt like someone had opened him up and placed a leaden ball inside his stomach. The beckoning archway of the glittering arena resembled the mouth of a terrible beast, ready to swallow him up, rather than the portal to victory that it promised. A banner over the arena, in bronze, impactful lettering, proclaimed ‘SPELLBREAKING TOURNAMENT! TONIGHT!’ Right next to it, a placard of the title fighters: “Hurricane Delgado Vs. Vahni Rage”. Spike was vaguely familiar with the former, an Olympic wrestler who had crossed over into spellbreaking. He wasn’t too sure about Agni, but he sensed he’d find out soon enough.

At least I’m not the title fight, Spike thought, with much relief, and then unexpected disappointment. He caught the site of a little boy riding in the shoulders of his father or uncle. The kid was probably around the same age Spike when started watching spellbreaking. I can’t lose this, he thought. I got to set an example if kids are watching!

Thankfully, this round of thought-spiralling was cut off when Spike heard John Henry suddenly curse under his breath. “Shit,” he said. “Varla didn’t say this was a Firebird sponsored show.”

“Firebird?” Spike asked.

He rolled his eyes. “Biggest fed in Russia and greater Europe I’d wager. They pride themselves on contracting fighters with legendary blood—descendants of demigods, heroes, and folkloric figures.” He thought for a moment, and then winked at his apprentice. “If you believe that crap.”

“Hmm. May I ask a question?”

“As long as you don’t feel entitled to an answer, young lion.”

“Are you really the John Henry?" Spike looked up at him with reverence. "I never did decide if old stories like that were true...but they say that a lot of those tall tale heroes wouldn't age like regular folk.”

The giant man laughed, full baritone. For some reason, it made Spike feel less unnerved. “Boy, if I was that hero, do you think I’d ever tell a little shit like you?” He said this, of course, with all of the affection he could muster.

“Well, I was kinda hoping…”

“Hahah! You’re alright kid. Just busting your chops.” He punched Spike in the arm. It hurt, of course, because the man was made of metal...even when he wasn’t turning his flesh and bone into iron. “For a guy who could throw me clear across the room, you need to thicken your skin.”

Perhaps the blow to the arm had set off the glyph, because Spike suddenly felt a lot more confident than the elevator—or at least, he no longer felt as if he’d keel over and puke right there on the polished skyway.

Spike and John Henry approached the security and ticket counter. Even the security guards had much neater uniforms than the cops back in Lowtown, with their blue velvet and brass buttons. Per John Henry’s explicit instructions, Spike let him do all the talking.

“He’s with me,” J.H. told the security guard, gruffer and more impatient than necessary, Spike thought. But maybe that’s how it worked up here. “He’s on the card tonight.”

The man, who was 90% moustache, looked Spike up and down as if to say, Him? Really? He jerked a thumb in the direction of a side-doorway and went back to inappropriately eyeballing the female patrons.

The arena interior was decked out in red velvet carpeting, and bronze and marble everything-else. Sconces and statues bled light into the shadows, and the ceiling above was made out to look like a starry night. The only time Spike could recall setting foot into a building like this was when Sister Patience had taken him and a select few of the most well-behaved boys to the theatre to see a play. But the Atlas Arena dwarfed the Lower Broadway playhouses by leagues.

Like a trained pup, Spike followed John Henry down the mezzanine overlooking the lobby. Below, men in suits and women in cocktail dresses sipped martinis at the bar, while parents bought their children expensive merchandise portraying their favorite spellbreaker. It was a life foreign to Spike. I want to be an action figure someday... he thought dreamily. As long as they make sure to get the butt right. Then again, if kids were to play with them, he would rather choose modesty. Protecting the innocent was part of the hero's motto after all.

Still, all those rich folks down there just drinking and watch well-trained fighters battle for their entertainment made his revaluate how he viewed his favortie sport. Spike frowned. “Varla said that spellbreakers used to fight as entertainment for the emperor. Looks like not much as changed.”

John Henry shook his head. “An astute observation...but I disagree.”

This caught Spike off guard. That, and he also didn't know what 'astute' meant.

“I seem to remember a little orphan boy telling me he watched pro spellbreaking on a broken TV in a janitor’s closet.”

“Sorry, my head is rushing right now. What are you getting at, coach?”

He laughed, as if it were obvious. “I'm saying, Spike, that everyone loves an underdog.”

“Seems to me that most people root for the villains instead these days. They’re much more interesting.” He eyed the poster of that Vahni Rage spellbreaker, hanging above the mezzanine--he was quite the looker, and very intimidating. But, maybe Spike was just feeling argumentative for the sake of it. Anything to distract him from the urge to flee and get away from this place as quickly as possible. 

John Henry held the hallway door open for Spike, but he did not pass through it himself.

“Sure, we’re just entertainment for those high rollers down there. But for everyone else, we represent a little bit more than that. We have something to fight for, blondie. Hope.”

Somehow, Spike knew this was where they were going to part way. He looked past the door, at a corridor leading towards a big sign that said, ‘Locker Rooms’.

Spike gulped. “Well, some 'hope' I’ll be once people see me get my beautiful butt kicked tonight.” He knew it was a dumb thing to say as soon as it has escaped his lips.

And John Henry certainly reacted appropriately. He sighed, and coldly said, “Boy, if that’s the attitude you’re taking into this fight, then you’ve already lost.”

The locker room in front of him, and the exit behind him. The little boy outside on his father’s shoulders. A little boy in a janitor’s office, trying to understand who he was. Spike looked between both past and present, over his shoulder, and directly ahead.

He clutched his gear bag tighter. “Lose? No. But everyone seems to expect that I will.”

“Do you? Do you really?” John Henry waited. He was patience personified. It was hard for Spike to ever imagine growing up into a man like him—strong, successful, poised. “You’ve already won the match. Everything else is just going through the motions. Go out there. Be a ham. Be a clown. Be a villain. Be a hero. Just be something and be it interesting. Do that, and you’ll never lose.”

Spike bit his lip and looked down at his bag. He learned towards the locker room. “I should let you know I’ve already disobeyed what Varla-”

But John Henry pushed his shoulders forward, across the Rubicon. “Attaboy,” he said, as he began to shut the door behind him. “Now, go get ‘em!”

            __

It was a humid, early summer’s night, and a mist hung over the open air colosseum. It had already been a real killer of an evening. Every match on the card was full of intensity and drama. The title match was hot on the audience’s minds, but a mid-card bout promised to be just as entertaining.

It was a three man gauntlet against one of the city’s handsomest, and most violent heels: Ryan Hartley, the Killer Quarterback. Booted from his college’s football league for too many counts of unnecessary roughness, the 6 foot, 230 pound bully cut his chops in spellbreaking and proceeded to mow down the competition—quite literally, and all of this by the age of 21.

This was who Spike was up against. He examined the taped-up note on the locker room corkboard back, trying to decipher the messy handwriting. Again more mixed disappointment and relief. His match wasn’t a one-on-one after all; more of a three-against one. And he was third on the list.

Which means I might not even get out there if the two other guys win. This was the strangest mix of emotions that. The part of him that wanted to run, finally had an out. But The part of him that wanted to prove himself was already let down.

So, Spike sat on the bench in front of the glow of a too-familiar looking TV set propped on a card table for the other fighters to watch. Spike learned quickly that the best of them got their own private suits, while the newbies and the underperformers all had to simmer in the back in the miserable, muggy heat until they were called to the curtain by management.

He carefully surveyed the room. There were only a few guys in the back, but Spike was in no mind to talk to them. A lanky, pale skinned guy with a mohawk toyed around with a ball of green energy in his palms before giving Spike a mean look. On the bench, watching the TV set, a guy in black trunks with slicked back hair, wearing a leather jacket, chewed and blew bubble gum loudly while watching the action on TV.

Looked like the end of the match, or if it wasn’t, it was a squash job. The poor guy on set, looking not unlike a Hollywood leading man, tossed from corner to corner by an absolutely ripped, dark-haired, swarthy man in crimson-red briefs. After a whip into the ropes, the muscle-bound heel with the beautiful, mean eyes scooped his opponent off the ground seamlessly and racked him lengthwise along his broad shoulders.

A torture rack, Spike identified. He yawned. He'd seen that before..

But not the next part. After grinning wickedly at the camera, the spellbreaker in red roared, summoning a brigh, red flash. The next thing Spike saw, it wasn't a poor, squirming hunk broken onto his shoulders, but a writhing mass completely ablaze, nearly too bright for the camera to capture. Spike was suddenly glad the TV set was muted.

Stupefied, he turned to the guy in the leather jacket. “Did…did that guy just light that other guy on fire?”

“Hehe. Yeah.” The man nodded to the title fight poster on the back wall. “He calls is the Funeral Pyre. One of the deadliest moves in all of spellbreaking. And that guy is Vahni Rage.” He spit on the ground. "Undefeated and merciless. A real sadistic bastard. He's awesome!"

Spike looked back at the TV set. Vahni stood with his lean, knotted arms folded in arrogant triumph. On the canvas in front of him, Spike witnessed a team of medical magi rushing to the ring to attend to the twitching, charred remains that had once been Vahni's opponent.

“Glad I’m not going up against him,” Spike laughed nervously, hoping this might endear the spellbreaker in the leather jacket into striking up a conversation.

The man in black just looked at him, blew a bubble, and popped it rudely with his tongue. “In your dreams, kid.”

Now, Spike had an even darker thought. “Your…name wouldn’t happen to be Ryan, would it?”

“Hahaha,” the spellbreaker laughed cruelly. “No.”

It was enough for Spike to take the hint and scram. He found his own corner of the locker room, away from the mean looks, and sauntered over to the drinking fountain. All this anxiety was making him terribly thirsty. As he pressed his finger to the button, letting forth a cool stream of water, he lowered his mouth—

And got a face full of cold, pressurized water as a result.

Reeling, Spike tried to wipe away the water with his hands, but each attempt resulted in the moisture welling up and bouncing back into his face. When he finally did manage to clear it from his eyes, he saw a blue haired woman in an equally blue fur coat standing alongside the mohawk man, laughing at Spike’s misfortune. Judging from her color scheme, Spike took the spellbreaker for a water magi. He recalled the name of her most-likely glyph, ‘Laguz’, likely the same possessed by dearly beloved Mick.

It was almost nostalgic in a way, being bullied like this again. Spike knew better than to talk back or challenge them. Last thing he needed was to get jumped before his actual match or get thrown out for misconduct (not that security backstage was much to speak of). Instead, Spike ignored the others, denying them their satisfaction, but careful to keep one eye over his shoulder until he was out of their vantage point.

Spike slunk away to the the dirtiest, loneliest corner of the lockeroom, hoping he'd find refuge in the grime. Instead, he found a god. Sitting on the bench, a spark-plug shaped spellbreaker--roughly around the same age--laced up his forest-green shoes. He wore a butcher’s cut singlet, which struggled to hold back his marble muscles--Spike was shocked to discover someone with lighter skin than him. He had messy red hair, a stern but boyish face, and, from how he sat with his impossibly huge legs spread open, appeared to be smuggling a rather large piece of fruit in his single crotch. It was only for a green Celtic knot logo on the piece of fabric that kept him from being completely indecent.

Before Spike could turn back around and find somewhere else to sulk and stress, the spellbreaker on the bench tightened the loop on his laces and said, “Best don’t pay them no mind, boyo.”

He had a rich accent that Spike couldn’t place, for the life of him. Wasn’t British or Australian, that much he knew. The young man shifted his legs, going for the other boot, and Spike saw almost every never just out in his rock-hard quads.

Suddenly, Spike was afraid that wouldn't be the only thing jutting out if he didn't look away from this white stallion.

The young man gave him a hard look. “’Twern’t looking at me junk, were ye?” He sounded oddly defensive, turning on a dime.

“What? No! I mean, you’re not bad looking but” Quit panicking you ninny; you’re not going to anywhere fast if you keep this up tonight! He took a deep breath. “I’m Spike.”

The green eyed spell breaker looked him up and down, and then, coming to some private agreement, grunted his name. “Cian.”

"Cayenne? Like the pepper?"

“…No,” Cian said flatly. “Not like the pepper. 'Key-in'. Like the god.” He turned around and went to work on his other boot. “An ancestor, if you’d believe it.”

“Oh!” Spike said. He never felt so out of his element before. "Er...where are you from, Cian."

"Ireland."

More like THIGHerland, Spike thought impishly. Seriously, he had never seen legs like that before. He could only imagine the damage they'd once they'd caught an opponent. Spike almost wanted to find out...

This was like the first week in the navy all over again. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained, and if he couldn’t muster up a simple conversation with a fellow combatant, then there was no chance Spike would last a minute in the rink tonight.

Spike plunked down his gear bag on the bench, earning him a suspicious but ultimately neutral glance from his new acquaintance. “I’ve never met a descendent of a god before,” Spike said earnestly. “Or a god.”

Cian didn’t look up at him but gave him another acknowledging grunt. “They say I got the blood of the sith in me.”

“Shee?”

“The fairies.” He then glanced over at him, just as Spike felt comfortable about starting to disrobe. “But I ain’t no fairy, if you catch me drift!”

Spike, pants midway off his sculpted legs, froze. “Geez, I never said you were!” He decided it would be even more awkward for both of them if he just stood there with half his trousers down his leg, so he removed them and then his shirt, leaving him in clad in plain white boxers. He’d never felt so naked in his life. His legs were pretty built, but in comparison to Cian's...they were toothpicks!

Spike started again, but made sure to start unzipping his gear bag lest this other guy (thankfully not named ‘Ryan’) think he was putting on a strip tease or whatever ridiculous notion insecure, straight men conjured up when faced with their queer equals.

 “I was just…look, the guys here are—”

“Right unfriendly,” Cian sniffed, switching back towards sympathetic. Thank the Goddess for that. “I know. They give me shit too.” He leaned over into an open locker and pulled out a glass bottle. “Here.”

Spike eyed it warily. “It’s not…you’re not going to make the bottle explode on me are you?”

Cian looked at him like he was the dumbest idiot in the world, before handing it to him.

Spike took it. Yellow, cloudy. Oh god, is it piss? I'm pretty open minded, but I'm not into that! 

No, definitely lemonade. Whatever. He thanked Cian, popped the cap off the bottle with his hands (maybe to earn some ‘masculinity’ points in Cian’s eyes, maybe not), and threw back a gulp. He was surprised, but not exactly disgusted, to find the taste of normal cola instead. He looked down back at the bottle to make sure he hadn't gone crazy. But maybe he had. As he was now staring at regular, fizzy soda pop.

"Did...but...this isn't lemons?"

Cian peeled off into surprisingly high pitched laughter, slapping his left thigh (sounded like he'd just hit solid rock, of course). “See, now there's how you rib someone.” He pointed to the bottle, and Spike thought he saw a whisp of emeral light trail off his fingertips. “It's me glyph. I can create tricks like that. Could have done something meaner, of course, but it would be like kickin' a sad, little puppy, I reckon."

Spike frowned, trying to parse what that meant, but truthfully his energy was better spent elsewhere. Besides, he had to admit that it was a neat trick, and no harm done either. Still, took a very suspicious sniff just to make sure the cola was, in fact cola. 

After gulping down the refreshing and welcoming drink, he placed the bottle on the bench and held his bag up awkwardly in one hand. “Uh…I’m going to change now, if you don’t mind.”

Cian gave him another stern look before taking the hint, turning around. “Don’t worry, ol’ Spike. Not gonna look.”

Ol’ Spike. He couldn’t decide if he liked that or not. Regardless, he dropped his underwear and quickly put on his new gear. It fit just okay but could have fit better. Still, it was a remarkable achievement, the naval striped briefs that matched his designated white boots (they really were setting him up to be a jobber, weren’t they?). Spike had even just enough material left to cover his kickpads, on which he'd both embroidered a blue anchor to match the tattoo on his back. If he was going to debut, then damn it, he was going to stay on brand!

Spike put all of this on, finally tying the blue ascot around his neck. He looked at himself in the dirty, full length mirror hanging on the wall, and only barely recognized himself. It was him alright, but a newer version. A spellbreaker. “Sailor Boy” Spike.

Behind him, he heard Cian mutter, “Heh. That really your gear?”

And the illusion faded. Now the reflection looking back at him was just a barely-grown man standing in his underwear.

“What about it?” Spike asked.

“It’s…kind of well...fruity is all.”

“Ringing endorsement,” Spike said, rolling his eyes. Besides, you're one to talk in that snug little singlet. “I made it myself.”

To his genuine surprise, Cian reeled back, embarrassed. “Oh,” he said, scratching his thick neck. “Hey, sorry. That's pretty cool. It’s just…I’m kind of going for a certain quality, y'know?”

Spike didn’t know what that had to do with himself, but he preferred to shift the topic back onto his new acquaintance. “Unfriendly, you mean?” he said with a sneer.

“Tough.”

“You look strong enough to me.” Spike thought to ask him about his glyph, but was promptly cut off.

“I’m going against Hartley,” Cian announced. He stood. He was just a little bit taller than Spike, but built like a brick house. Steady diet of milk, meat, and vegetables, Spike thought. Not slim nor fat, but thick. “What about you, pretty sailor boy?”

“Me too!” Spike said, a little bit too excited, and a lot nervous. “Hey, then…you must be first or second in the gauntlet.” Just when he thought he was getting somewhere with this guy, one of them somehow managed to make it more awkward.

“First in line,” Cian said, proudly jamming his thumb into his own, round chest to make a point. Then, he extended his arm and slowly flexed his massive bicep. This was enough to make Spike's heart skip a bit, but what really made his jaw drop was what came next. Cian's skin rippled, almost like a wave of goosebumps, but--much like John Henry's metallic power--shifted into a completely different state of matter. Solid, weathered rock, carved with geometric, spiral patterns. Spike thought he'd seen something like this before on a travel documentary in Ireland.

"Ye can touch it if you ain't weird about it, boyo."

Spike tried to not to look visibly flustered. He threw back his shoulders, trying to seem uninterested, and made sure to keep his wrist firm and un-limped as he poked Cian's meaty, rocky arm. He blinked. "It...doesn't feel like rock."

The illusion vanished. Just snow-white, pale boy bicep now. 

"But it sure feels like it if you get hit with it." Cian winked and poked at his head to illustrate the point. "That's the power o' the Shining Ones, for ye. Mind over matter. I ain't just big and dumb, y'know!"

And as if willed into being, a deep voice from somewhere in the back of the locker room called out, “Cian Enbarr! Get your ass out here and spellbreak. You’re up!”

“Right!” The well-built lad shouted back. He gave Spike a nod. “Sorry you won’t get a shot tonight, ol’ Spike. You got moxie. I’ll give ye that.” The spellbreaker in the black singlet turned and left Spike dumbstruck, unable to say anything in reply. "Oh, and if I catch you eyeballing me legs again, you can expect to find that blond head of yours crushed between them. Hehehe."

Spike turned several shades of red. Don't you dare threaten me with a good time!

Grinning with mischief, Cian waved behind him, Spike getting an eye-full of his broad back and ample backside. “Well. Better luck next time, eh, boyo?” 

Next Chapter!