A throng of red and white skirted cheerleaders—blonde, brunette, and red-head respectfully—leapt into the air with their pompoms.
“Ryan, Ryan, he’s our guy! He’s gonna make the other boys cry!”
It didn't rhyme perfectly, but none of the dads in the audience seemed to mind.
Coming to the ring decked out in a green jersey, shoulder pads, and briefs, Ryan jumped over the ropes and shook the ring with his cleets, all the while brandishing a football. The heel struck a pose for the roaring crowed, giving them just a tease of his superiority before slamming his pigskin straight into the mat. It bounced off and nearly hit the ringside commentators at their table, to which Ryan only laughed. The crowd, of course, popped huge.
Ryan was a sight to behold, and he knew it. After blowing his cheerleader entourage a kiss, sending at least one of them swooning into the other’s arms, he promptly tore his jersey straight off his chest and revealed his home town glory—bulging biceps and pectorals, which he bounced up and down to the cheer of his adoring fans. Ryan sneered at the camera, indulging it with yet another pose, while he rudely chewed a piece of gum, a bad habit of his he hadn’t yet broken.
The nervous ref began patting the Killer Quarterback down, but no sooner had he gotten to checking his trunks for hidden weaponry did the angry heel bump him with his chest, sending the poor man back into the ropes. Ryan let out another bully laugh, then took to his corner, applying two steaks of eye-black to his face in preparation for his latest conquest. With his blonde buzz-cut and red cheeks, he looked every part the jock bully from a high school romance movie.
Only, there were no heroes to stand up to him, no lessons learned by the time the credits rolled-- only suffering and pain and humiliation for any dweeb who dared enter the ring while he was inside it. Ryan barely needed his glyph to make a point. Any magic lobbed at him was easily absorbed, of course…but his opponents didn't need to know that.
Ryan sneered into the camera. "I'm your high school hearth throb. And all you losers sitting at home are about to watch me play touchdown with these dorks!"
The bell rang, and the most attentive audience members noticed Ryan’s bulge twitch at the sound. The commentators introduced the first opponent, but his name was (intentionally) drowned out as Ryan flexed his monstrous biceps for the crowd again.
The poor kid was a tall, shaggy haired up-and-comer with a tight swimmer’s build. He did his best to shyly wave to the crowd, but it was plain to see the jobber was out of his depth. Mr. What's-His-Name regained his confidence when he hopped into the ring and extended his hand to Ryan in a gesture of good sportsmanship. The jock looked down at like it was a foreign gesture, or something disgusting, before he shrugged, smiled, and put the kid’s hand into his painful grip.
A grip that did not let go.
Before the jobber realized he was in deep trouble, Ryan dragged his arm into a spin and whipped him into the ropes. The kid bounced off like a rubber ball, right into Ryan’s massive arms, which clamped down on him like a garbage compactor, crushing him against is broad, bulky chest. The crowd thought they heard the poor opponent squeak like a deflated balloon.
Fortunately, if the kid had to experience the pain of getting all of his ribs crushed at once, he didn’t have to bear it for long. Ryan turned the bear hug into a firm, beautifully executed suplex, flipping the jobber over and slamming his spine straight into the mat. The kid’s head bounced up once from the blow to his system, before his eyes rolled back into his head, sinking into a deep unconsciousness. Poor kid didn’t even get a chance to go for his magick before he was already out cold.
The ringside commentator, a local cars salesman with a sleazy Jersey accent, belly laughed at the display of raw, brutal dominance. “Would ya look at that folks, Ryan has scrapped his first opponent—uh, what’s his name?—into the mat. Now, he’s picking him up in his arms and tossing him clear out of the ring like a football. Looks like the medical magi are on hand to salvage the rest of ‘em! Okay, ya damn marks, here comes the next victim—I mean, contestant. Introducing, Cian Enbarr, the Faeblood Bralwer”
Ryan glared at the curtain at the end of the aisle, waiting for his second victim—or challenger—to come out and face him. This night was already a bust as far as he was considered. He hadn’t even needed to activate his glyph yet.
Cian burst out behind the curtain, all energy, and flexed for the audience--making sure his legs got their fair share of attention as well. As he posed, a shower of glittering sparks, in orange, green, and white, materialized out of the air, a conjured mirage. The audience cheered. The colored light danced over their face, and Cian smiled in satisfaction, drinking in the crowd’s reaction.
Ryan was not amused.
But Cian was determined. This was his second match, and so far it was 2 – 0. Straight wins, both well-earned. And tonight, Cian intended to put Ryan back on the bench. He glared at him coldly, hoping to summon his warrior's fury when he needed it. There was a technique, passed down in his family, he'd been hoping to activate--the Blood Frenzy. Tonight he hoped to tap into the power of the Celtic gods and smear Ryan's stupid, proud face all over the ring. Maybe it would even impress that Spike kid in the back, humbling the prettyboy just a little and showing him what a real spellbreaker looked like.
Cian jumped into the ring and stared his opponent down. Even Ryan had to admit, the kid was cocky, unafraid. He’d be sure to take care of that in a second.
Cian snapped his fingers and the sparks winked out of existence. Sadly, that was mostly the extent of his magical prowess. Thus far, he’d relied on technique and brawn, as well as a natural tolerance for taking a spell or two. He figured he could throw some sparks in Ryan’s face to catch him off guard, then take him down at the knees or get on his back and wrap his legs around his thick neck. Nobody got out of that one, after all...
The football playing magi circled Cian like a hungry animal, but Cian knew how to work a match, keep the crowd entertained. He warmed up with a few kicks of his feet, flexing his sculpted thigh muscles. Still, compared to the Killer Quarterback, he was a small fry. The tough ginger gave his opponent a cold stare before getting into a grappling position. Ryan just laughed the stance off.
Again, the bell rang.
Ryan wouldn’t even give the kid a chance at a lockup. He bent down and charged at Cian at full force, a wayward locomotive crashing down the track--he would give him a taste of his magic alright. Inside, his glyphic system activated, magnifying Ryan’s velocity and power.
Cian had only a second to realize he was screwed…
Wham!
“That wasn’t so much a takedown as it was an explosion!” the commentator barked into the mic. “250 pounds of careening fury. My goodness, that poor kid is broken!”
The sound of collision and Cian letting out a painful “Urk!” caused the audience to erupt. Some of them had gotten tickets tonight in hopes of seeing the Faeblood triumph, but now their allegiances shifted in one, single display of bone-crunching power.
The ropes miraculously caught Cian, and the soma coursing through his veins did its best to keep him from shattering in two, but at this point he was already seeing stars. His vision blurred, finally coming together in the form of a sweaty, sneering mound of muscle looming over him.
“Whoops,” Ryan said as he grabbed the Irish wrestler’s head. He buried it in his crotch, and after a morning of weight-lifting without a shower to follow, the effect was both pungent as it was punishing. The crowd whooped and hollered, while the commentators pretended to bemoan the lack of good sportsmanship. Meanwhile, poor Cian’s reddening face was beginning to tear up under the suffocating stench of the two-ton athlete.
Finally bored with his toy, Ryan picked Cian up by the neck and pushed his back into the rope. He then clawed either side of Cian cheeks, prying his jaws open, at which point he leaned in and let the stringy wad of gum fall into his poor opponent’s open mouth. He forced Cian’s jaw tight, and before the humiliated opponent could hope to spit the disgusting, pre-chewed wad out, Ryan hoisted him onto his back for a spine-snapping torture rack magnified by his magic.
If the football player, or the ref for that matter, saw the choking, sputtering opponent try to signal his submission, neither of them witnessed it in time. Ryan tossed poor Cian clear over the ropes. He landed with a sickening crash, and only the stilted rise and fall of his chest indicated he was alive at all. Eyes fluttering in delirium, Cian opened his mouth, drooling, and a piece of masticated gum spilled out unceremoniously onto the concrete.
“Touchdown!” The Quarterback roared, flexing his biceps for the audience, while the medical magi attended to the unconscious and broken Cian splayed out on the ringside flooring.
Meanwhile, in the locker room, Spike listened for the drowned out sound of the crowd’s excitement. He frowned and hung his head.
Cian must have clinched the victory after all, he thought. He lingered by the entrance to the back stage, waiting for Cian to emerge. Spike would high-five him, mutter a few encouraging words, and then likely be brushed off. Then, Varla or John Henry (who was he kidding, Varla was probably in the bar downstairs arranging fights) would come to fetch him. Maybe he'd earn a few bucks and a handshake if he were lucky...
“Clear the way!”
Spike’s head turned in the direction of the sound, before he saw two men in white healer’s robes wheeling a stretcher back stage. He had just enough time to make out Cian’s unconscious body, splayed across the stretcher as if he were a dead fish on a serving plate. Spike’s jaw dropped.
Oh no. Does this mean—
“Waterford!”
Spike flinched. It was like he was back in the Navy again, about to get written up for some lewd offense. Only this time, the punishment that awaited him was much, much worse. He laughed nervously to himself. Time started running slow.
“Waterford, get your bubble butt out here!”
Spike looked around the locker. It was like he was underwater, all his movements slow, languid. He grabbed his sailors cap and put it on his head, tightening it. He looked at himself again, caught between boy-playing-pretend and spellbreaker-about-to debut. But something was off. Something here no longer belonged.
He removed his sailor’s cap, gave it a look over, and tossed it over to his gym bag. It just didn’t suit him anymore.
The tired, droopy-faced handler motioned Spike impatiently over to the entrance, while behind him, the blue haired girl and the punk sneered. “You ready? You know what to do, kid?” The manager pulled a vial from his breast pocket and shoved it into Spike’s hands.
“Yeah,” Spike said, psyching himself up. He popped the cork and let the liquid fall into his mouth. This was the real stuff. John Henry had warned him about the head rush and the tingling. Spike felt the enchanted liquid enter his bloodstream, his head swimming. As expected, some of the fear dulled, but he was still in every control of his senses. He felt his muscles bulge slightly, his ligaments become more limber, yet reinforced. He even noticed--with a bit of embarrassment--that the stuff had gotten him rock-hard, something he suddenly didn't care who noticed, thanks to the surge of testosterone taking hold. Spike was changed, momentarily, by the grace of the divine elixir.
Then he remembered where he was and what was about to happen. It was unreal. Like a dream. Everything around him moved at the wrong speed. Inside, he felt a pulsing, not just his heartbeat or the soma. Maybe magick.
“These losers aren’t worth my time!” Spike heard Ryan growl from the ring. “Any real men out there ready to step in and let me use their head as a pigskin?”
Spike’s icy blue eyes cut through the shadows of the backstage. Heroes. Villains. Whatever he was, whatever power he contained, be this a victory or defeat, he was going to give this audience one hell of a show. And if he did go down, he was going to make Ryan work for it.
The curtain parted. The light shined down. The noise and the light intertwined, drowning him in stimuli. The whole world seemed to open before him, a thousand faces in the crowd, a thousand more lights hanging overhead. It was like a great sea, ready to drown him, take him under.
But Spike had been at sea many times before. The raw terror transformed itself into a surge of excitement and power that no glyph or magick could hope to replicate. Because in that moment, standing there in front of the rich and poor alike (but mostly the rich) Spike felt something new, a sensation he had never experienced before.
He felt like a damn hero.
A few members of the audience gasped at his entrance—he wasn’t sure out of shock or disappointment, or even desire. He knew his outfit was, to say the least, befitting of a former pin up boy. He wore the signature, little blue ascot perched above his chiselled pecs. White arm bands cupped his biceps, which he felt was a bit of false advertising, as they did accentuate them more than expected.
Only seconds had passed since Spike’s emergence, but he suspected he was just standing there like a deer in the headlights (with a prowling wolf only meters away). He remembered what John Henry had said. Ham it up. Give them a show. Who was he now? A sailor boy? What would Sailor Boy Spike do?
Well, salute the audience of course! Spike struck a heroic pose, flexed his bicep with one arm, and saluted the audience with another. “Aaaat ease!” he shouted. Oh no, did his voice crack? Was it too high? Would the crowd even here it at all.
Feet. Come one, feet, move. Don’t look at Ryan. Don’t look at Ryan. Oh hell, I just looked at Ryan. He’s enormous (kinda hunky too—maybe it won’t be so bad if he crushes me after all—no shut up! Just keep moving. Chest out, shoulders back, just like John Henry told you. Should I high five the crowd? No, nobody looks like they want to high five me. Okay, salute that pretty lady right there. Hey, she laughed—was that a good thing? Okay, salute that pretty man right there—okay, maybe not the reaction I was looking for. You can do this, Spike. You can do this!
He kept himself marching forward. The reaction from the crowd was, to Spike’s concern, mixed.
“They let guys like that into the real leagues now?”
“He’s too pretty! I hope Ryan retires him on the spot.”
It was a blow to Spike's confidence. Well, what did you honestly expect?
No, don’t let them win. So, Spike blew the drunken, jeering men a kiss instead. One of them snarled back, but the other laughed and, to Spike’s surprise, gave him a salute back.
Other overheard comments shored up Spike’s confidence. From women and men alike.
“Hell, I want him to beat me up!”
“Hey, I'd sure love to take a peek under what's bulging under that anchor back there.”
“Wow, cute and tough! I like this babyface.”
This sudden burst of confidence inspired Spike to stand by the edge of the ramp, turn to flex his arms, and peek over his shoulder—a signature “calendar boy” look he’d done many times before. With a wink and a smile, he felt half of the audience’s hearts melted in an instance. Okay, he’d won some of their support. Would it be enough?
Ryan had been barely paying attention, instead posing and showboating for his ooing-and-awing cheerleader hype girls. Only when their attentions turned towards Spike did he realize something was up. He looked out by the ring apron to size up his final opponent.
The jock practically salivated onto the canvas. His sneer, caught on camera, could have cut right through the lens. “Oh, touchdown! I’m gonna eat this prettyboy for dinner.”
Spike finally got a look at his challenger. Oh, crap...
He was big. But hell, he’d fought bigger. Well, no he hadn’t. But it could be worse, right? Spike slid into the ring and nearly caught his foot on the ropes. He pretended he hadn’t. The folks at home might catch his error, but he wasn’t going to clue the audience in.
Oh, great start, Spike thought sarcastically. He hopped up and down, stretching his muscles and locking eyes with Ryan, trying to muster up some meanness.
It had the opposite effect, only serving to piss Ryan off. Who was this muscle twink showboating in his ring?
“Look at you,” Ryan growled, circling his opponent like a hungry bear. “So pretty! Spunk, was it?”
“It’s Spike,” the newcomer said, allowing the ref to pat him down. “No, that’s not a foreign object, ref,” Spike whispered to the man, who demurred and backed off. Spike returned to Ryan. “I have to say, Ryan, you’ve got quite the impressive…attitude.” His eyes travelled down to his green gear, printed with his jersey number, 77, on the front.
Now, Ryan enjoyed playing the part of the predator but hated being on the other side of a leer. “So, you like what you see, kid?” He bounced his pecs, thinking they might intimidate his opponent (it had the opposite effect). When this failed to produce the results he wanted, he instead grabbed his crotch, holding out a fistful of his own manhood. “Good, cuz your face is going to be right up against this. Enjoy all of five seconds of my sweaty nuts in your face before I end your miserable career.”
Spike laughed this away. “Cutie, before this night is over, you’re going to beg to kiss my sweet ass.”
Gritting his teeth in anger (how dare this sissy boy get inside his head!) Ryan barked, “Pansies like you don’t belong in the ring; they belong in the ground. And that’s where I’m putting you tonight!”
All this talk and no action was starting to bore the Sailor Boy, who was less afraid now and more annoyed. It wasn't like Ryan was every high school bully who'd ever preyed on the weak. He was certainly no Chester or Willy. He was just…boring. A cliché.
“Ryan, tonight your winning streak ends,” Spike seethed, mustering up heat and intensity reflected in his icy eyes. “I won’t break you, though. I’m going to show this audience how pathetic you truly are.”
That was all Ryan needed to hear. “Game time!” he said, charging Spike at full force. Screw the show—he wanted this punk wasted now!
The running clothesline hit Spike straight in the shoulder, sending him straight into the canvas. Great start, he thought again, bitterly irritated that he hadn’t reacted fast enough. The soma, as well as his gift, took the brunt, but this was just the start of the match. The laughter from the more macho acting tough-guys in the audience put him right back in the fighter’s headspace. He turned the fall into a stunning backwards role, landing on his on feet. He struck a pose in front of the confused football player and blew a kiss to the audience, simultaneously tapping into his own flirty personality while unknowingly mocking Ryan’s earlier antics with his cheerleaders.
The rest was a wordless dance between two spellbreakers with something to prove. Ryan got Spike on the lockup, but the kid was faster, remembering his training with John Henry. He channelled just a fraction of the blow Ryan had delivered into scooping the giant beneath his meaty thigh and throwing him onto his back.
The crowd gasped in shock. This was as far as anybody had gotten tonight!
But Spike wouldn’t let beginner's luck cloud his mind. He rode the momentum and bounced off the ropes, delivering a stunning elbow drop across Ryan’s heaving pecs. Thankfully, they made for an easy target.
The Killer Quarterback let out a groan. “Oof!”
Spike knew he couldn’t stop there. The only way he’d beat this jerk was if he was quick and relentless and channelled his glyph at exactly the right time. If the brute caught him in a hold, it was all over. Besides, Spike still didn’t know the extent of the magick Ryan possessed. Clearly some form of enchanted strength; that much was certain.
Some heels toyed with their opponents, prolonging the torture. From what Spike had sized up of Ryan, he was cocky, predictable. He took the quick and dirty approach. Very dirty.
So, Spike didn’t hold back. This, time, he jumped off the second rope and brought his legs down Ryan’s stomach, knocking the wind right out of him. The ref was just as surprised as the audience, but he threw himself down in anticipation for a pin.
Spike tried to hook a leg but fumbled—Ryan was a lot sweatier than he thought, and his legs were like steel beams wrapped in meat. This lost him some time. The Quarterback forced a recovery, not about to let some bikini boy get a single count in. He kicked Spike’s legs straight from under him, sending the Sailor Boy back down to the mat.
Before Spike could hope to get back on his feet, Ryan clamped down hard on his shoulders and drove the upstart straight between his legs. Spike felt like a starved anaconda had wrapped itself around his head, or that he’d gotten his head stuck between two hydraulic presses. He was pretty sure he could feel his eyes about to pop out of his skull as he struggled against the urge to tap. Not that Ryan would yield, anyway. Besides, could have been worse (or better)...it could have been Cian's thighs crushing his skull instead. Though he wondered if Cian would get the chance to crush ever again...
“Should I crack your cute little head between my legs, Spikey boy?” Ryan laughed, applying pressure.
Spike realized his ass was now facing a good portion of audience, which is probably why that side of the room was laughing and whistling. Good, he’d give them a show. Besides, as much as it felt like his skull was about to break, Spike couldn’t deny there was something a bit…kinky about all of this. It had been a too long while since he’d had his head between a big, muscle boy’s legs. He’d kinda missed it, actually.
“Dude, when was the last time you showered?” he squeaked out. “Too bad for you, I like a little musk on my men.”
“What the hell, bro? You’re actually enjoying this?!”
Well, not just enjoying. Because the slow pressure was converting itself into energy too, which Spike was now absorbing like a sponge. Hell, he couldn’t tell if he had actually been clever for once, or just lucky.
"Harder, Ryan!" Spike grunted, realizing that his flirty teasing would either put more pressure on him--and thus causing his glyph to accumulate power--or he'd let go out of pure homophobia. "Wow, you call those legs? More like twigs. I thought you really wanted me in between your legs, but I guess not!"
Ryan’s disgust was his undoing. He lost the hold, Spike clamped his claws around Ryan’s legs, with enough force to part Ryan's quads and extract his head. He heard the audience gasp. Some cheers. Some boos.
And then that commentator with the irritating accent. “Skid-doo! Would ya look at that! This pin-up boy’s got power, folks! Those Olympic gymnast muscles must be deceptive, because he’s parted Ryan’s quarterback thighs like goddam Hercules and the pillars! What a turnabout, ladies and gents! Who coulda seen this pretty boy get this far? But does he have what it takes to pin the Killer Quarterback?”
“Hell yeah I do,” Spike choked, catching his breath and trying to stand. Already the initial blessing of the soma was waning, and his stamina depleting. He felt slicked with sweat, and his lungs begged for air. Which was rather inconvenient, as a nearly 250 pound jock was now bearing down on him again, ready to rend him. He needed to do something desperate. Something…dirty.
His eyes fell on Ryan’s bulge, his target, and he went for the low blow—an uppercut to the—
“AGGGH!!!”
This time the crowd was on Spike’s side, popping and laughing at the move. Ryan collapsed to the ground, red faced, holding his tender bits. The announcers couldn’t believe a fresh-faced, angelic looking spellbreaker like Spike could even resort to such a dirty trick! For Spike, he was starting to think this match was going far more slapstick than he’d like.
“Not the only boy who can play ball, Ry-guy,” Spike said, pointing and laughing as Ryan nursed himself in a bent over position, like a hurt little boy.
Of course, amid all this rough play, Spike completely forgot about the ref. The pipsqueak of a man, who looked even afraid of a boy-next-door type like Spike, sputtered out his warning.
“T-t-that’s an illegal move,” the geeky looking ref said sternly, placing his hand on Spike’s shoulder.
At once, Spike felt himself suddenly become more fatigued, his energy quite literally draining out of his body.
“Penalty,” the ref said. “Stamina reduction.”
The damn ref had syphoned some of his energy! Geez, where did they find this geek? Spike thought, though of course he was fully aware of the illegal move. And if he was a nastier wrestler, he might give the geek a good blow to the chest.
But that wasn’t him. Besides, there was something else he could give him…
“Oh, sorry, Ref,” Spike said, feigning guilt. Though Spike preferred to win fairly, he didn’t want the audience to think he was squeaky clean.
But with all this grandstanding and toying around, Spike failed to see that Ryan had been exaggerating his injury on purpose. He was not as dumb of a jock as Spike assumed! The football player roared and brought his heavy arms around Spike’s neck, putting him an iron-hard nelson.
“The Sailor Boy’s got a problem now!” the sleazy commentator at ringside said, taking in the sight of the poor rookie’s reddening face and expressions of agony. “I think this might be it, folks!”
Funny, this is exactly how I assumed I’d die, Spike thought to himself, as he felt his own chin dig into his sternum, and his neck muscles begin to bend in places where they really shouldn’t...
Thing was, Ryan was still a third-rate bully. He craved attention. A nelson finish was not enough. Spike converted the pain into the energy, holding out against the pressure of the brutal submission. He heard the jock huff in frustration before slamming Spike directly into the mat.
Spinning stars and an inverted world greeted the Sailor Boy on the canvas. Cian flashed briefly through his mind, and John Henry’s disappointed look. Somewhere in that audience, a young spellbreaker fan was watching. Spike pictured the kid from outside, saying “Get up! Get up!” Just like he’d done for Colt so many years ago.
“Get up!” The quarterback bellowed, yanking Spike up by his pretty hair. He whipped into the turnbuckle, as easy as tossing a pillow across the ring. Spike smashed into the post. The runes around him glowed brightly at his impact. Something was amiss here. He was absorbing the impact, yes, but it was still leaving him winded, almost like there was magic mixed in with Ryan’s moves. And if Spike’s head had still been on straight, and his back not slumped helplessly against the ropes, he might have recognized a trace of familiarity about it too...
Positioned in the opposite corner, Ryan—heaving like an injured beast—grit his teeth and stared down his prey, weakened. That wuss in the pretty panties was unable to fight now. This was almost too easy! He began hoofing the canvas with his cleets like a bull about to charge, just as a green, barely perceptible aura began radiating off his frame, and the air around him shimmered and bent.
Sensing victory was close at hand, Ryan his arms up in a “touchdown” pose, kicking off the ground as he did. The canvas beneath his feet rippled like water. Even at the opposite corner, Spike felt the reverb—yet he couldn’t hope to do anything about it. The combination of the ref’s penalty and Ryan’s stranglehold had left him gasping for air. His body wouldn’t even permit him the luxury to panic.
The air around the football player turned into steam as he charged forward with the force of a speeding train, ready to smash his body into Spike and leave him crumped on the mat. Something told Spike that Ryan wouldn’t go for the pin right away, that he'd toy with his lifeless body til he was through. So much for a stint at spellbreaking...
If he Spike going to get utterly squashed, he was going to at least try to defend himself. Spike pushed himself off the ropes and resumed a grappling stance, ready to embrace the charging rhino. His addled mind played back like a movie reel, to the night before, in a last minute attempt at self-preservation. What had he read about his own glyph? It could convert inertia into power, just like how he did when getting wailed on. Hell, it was worth a shot, right?
As the shadow of Ryan loomed over him, and Spike felt the pressing weight of a sweaty, muscle-bound idiot about to slam into him, he recognized that familiar sensation again. Everything played out slow, at half measured time. Spike’s hands dug into Ryan’s shoulders, a desperate and final attempt to keep him at bay. Surprising himself, his fingers didn’t shatter on impact. Instead, a jolt of power went through them, like a plug connecting to a socket. Spike felt something--not the impact, but the momentum and force behind it, like a torrent of water washing over him...but not crushing him.
Then, in the space between moments, Spike at last recognized the familiarity in Ryan's power. It was as if Spike's eyes had adjusted to a dark room, and there—burning brightly in the center—was the image of Spike's glyph.
And Ryan’s glyph as well. They were one in the same. Dynamis. Force.
Everything clicked, in a moment of precise and astounding clarity. Spike took a long, deep breath, allowing Ryan’s charging energy to pass right through him. He absorbed what he could, like a sponge, letting it fuel him in ways that a simple blow to the head could never. Just when he thought he might burst, he locked eyes with Ryan, smiled, and let go.
It was like a bullet hitting a block of solid rubber, Ryan crashed into Spike, a wall. There was a moment of quiet, before the release, and then—just like what had befallen poor Chester so many years ago—Ryan flew through the air, several feet off the ground in the opposite direction. Confusion did not have time to stick itself to his face before his body, caught by the ropes—burning white to contain the massive burst of magical energy—rejected him just as brutally. His hulking body flew this time in a parabolic arc, and then slammed down into the mat with the impact of a meteor landing.
The canvas shook. Spike’s knees buckled, and for the first time in a very long time, the crowd of the Atlas Arena was dead silent, save for the sound of a toothpick dropping from a stunned commentator’s lips.
The quiet after the storm was interrupted by a low groan, muffled by the mat, as Ryan attempted to come to. This was, however, drowned out by the sudden swell of the audience getting to their feet, cheering in triumph.
Spike looked around, feeling the sweat drip from his chin, his hair matted to his skull with perspiration. He could only imagine what he must look like right now. What was happening? What had happened? Why was he still (mostly) standing and Ryan flat on his stomach, moaning and trembling on the canvas, a trickle of blood leaking from his nose? Even the ref looked utterly bewildered.
Though only the folks watching at home could hear the commentator, the man lost his damn mind, steam practically escaping from his collar, spittle spraying from his mouth. “WHAT IN THE WORLD!? Even the audience felt that! Oh my Goddess! What is going on here, folks? I don’t think anybody expected this!”
Least of all Spike himself! And now all he could hear was John Heny inside his head going “Stop standing there like a statue collecting pigeon shit and pin him, damn it! Finish the knucklehead!”
The bastard wasn’t down for the count yet, and Spike wasn’t about to let arrogance or shock stand in the way of a victory. He jumped over the downed wrestler and took to the ropes, climbing to the top. He balanced on the turnbuckle and stared out into the audience. There were plenty of shocked faces yes. But the disgust in their eyes was all gone now. Even the burly men in the front row had changed their tune, drunkenly whooping and hollering. “Let’s go, Spiiiiike!” They slur-chanted.
Spike’s chest expanded and deflated with each deep breath, but he forced a smile out. He dripped sweat, like dew coming off the statue of David. It was impossible to distinguish the rush left in the wake of Ryan’s failed finisher and the energy the crowd was feeding into Spike now. He could almost feel it literally sinking into his skin.
Wait a minute, Spike thought. I am! It was invisible, this surge of power, but Spike felt it from all directions as he stood, a god of love masquerading as a god of war, an Adonis for an Ares. The women cheered. The men hollered and whooped, completely blown over that this pretty boy had managed to turn the big, butch football player into a whimpering sissy. But better than that, Spike saw the eyes of the younger fans light up with admiration. He saw himself in them. If this was what it felt like to be a hero, then Spike never wanted to let this feeling go.
And then it hit him—for all of his training and all of his worry, all of those glyphic studies and days of anguish spent with John Henry, Spike had never thought to come up with a finishing move, something that he quickly needed at his disposal right this very second!
Quietly panicking but remembering not to let it show on his face, Spike looked down at Ryan, trying to peel himself off the canvas. The ref went to his side. He pushed up weakly, raising his head just high enough to look up at Spike and glare as he pressed his fingers to his nose and gazed down at the sight of his own blood. Spike had rendered him mortal. It was a sin that would not be forgiven once he got back on his feet.
Spike wouldn’t let him get the chance,
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Spike took a deep breath, mustered up the beast inside, and did a double flex for the audience, showing off the peaks of his biceps. He was careful in doing so—the last thing he needed was to fall off the top rope and break his own neck.
“Anchors away!” he announced, as he let physics do the rest. He muttered a prayer to the Goddess under his breath and took to the air, flipping himself upside down and channelling all of the audience’s energy into his calculated fall.
In practice, it was body splash, the likes used by high flying types. Gravity took control and Spike felt his glyph activate, using all of his stored-up energy--including the adoration from the crowd--to transform him into the equivalent of a comet crashing through the stratosphere.
SLAM!
The crystals embedded into the turnbuckles vibrated with blue electricity, and the runes inside the ring burned so intensely that the ropes themselves began to briefly smoke. When the dust cleared, Spike lay nearly unconscious, spread out across Ryan’s back, exactly where he needed to be. It was a good thing for the soma, as Ryan might have never rumbled again--his spine shattered by the force of a ship anchor dropped onto his back.
Somewhere, the ref was counting someone out.
“One…two…three!”
The bell rang. Had Spike been pinned? Suddenly, hands lifted him onto his feet, and someone was standing there, raising his arms up. It was like watching himself from the other side of the ring.
“The winner of the match, Sailor Boy Spike Waterford! I can’t believe it! Who is this kid?”
It was almost an out of body experience, standing up, having the ref hold up his arm to denote the victor. The ringside commentators went wild. The audience went wild. In the midst, of the chaos, Spike, just as perplexed as everyone else, turned to the ref and gave him a deep kiss on the lips out of excitement. The poor man’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he collapsed to the mat, right on top of poor Ryan, still out cold. Somewhere off to the side, a trio of cheerleaders wailed and cried and fell to their knees in sorrow.
Spike forced himself to walk, but it was more of a limp out of the ring, right through the ropes. Right now, all he wanted to do was get backstage, throw up, drink five gallons of water, and then pass out. His whole body felt like jelly, and a potion of adrenaline, soma, and raw excitement at his first real victory rushed through his nervous system. There were faces, excited audience members reaching out to touch him on the shoulder—or in one elderly lady’s case, pinch his but. He wished he could shake their hands, kiss their cheeks, and tell them how much he adored them. But right now, he just couldn’t be bothered to give them any mind.
As Spike reached the awning, the cool of the welcoming backstage at his fingertips, Spike turned one last time towards the ring, just to make sure all of this had been real. Splayed on the canvas, Ryan and the ref were both starting to stir, medical magi off to the side of the ring skirt, trying to decide whether their assistance was required. Spike took all of it in and smiled.
And if it weren’t for the two gentleman standing at ringside, and their striking appearance, Spike might not have noticed either of them at all. They were both impressively built and tall. The older one in his dark, dried-blood colored suit; very pale, with an extraordinary, black beard and terrifying eyes. He gazed at Spike in a look of…well, Spike wasn’t sure. Nor was he sure he wanted to know. It was a wide-eyed stare, full of hunger, or terror, or excitement, like a starved animal let loose.
The other one was much more appealing to gaze upon, but in doing so, Spike felt as if he was looking at a great and terrible beauty. The dark haired man, with shoulder length hair, was the color of copper and looked as if he'd been sculpted right out of it. His eyes were dark, and yet they burned. His face was unearthly handsome, with a bit of beard to accentuate it. He wore tight fitting, crimson briefs, with golden flames licking at the places that...well...Spike wouldn't have minded licking.
It clicked then, where Spike had seen him before. There in front of him as if descending from the Heavens themselves to enact divine punishment, was Vahni Rage, the Wrathful Warrior of Flame. He looked upon Spike like he was either a Renaissance masterpiece...or a piece of meat. Then, he gave Spike the most terrifying, cold grin--complete with placing his thumbs to his neck and drawing a line across, as if he was a butcher and Spike a lamb about to be scarified.
His lips mouthed something, and Spike was only just barely able to make it out. "I...need...to...hurt...you."
Spike had to rub his eyes to make sure he wasn’t seeing things, or that the specter of death hadn’t show up expecting to collect him that night. A creeping terror came over Spike and he turned back to the curtain, hoping to never see either face ever again.
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