Chapter 12: The Platinum Champion of the GSA

Dressed in all black, with a barrel chest and a long ponytail, the guard looked to Spike like a gorilla turned into a human and got a night job. The guard huffed at him as he tossed open the double doors of the arena, gear bag slack across his broad shoulders, and made a bee line for the terrace.

"If you leave, kid, you ain't getting in unless you're Colt the Bolt!"

Spike was not in the mood. He turned around and glared cold steel into the guard's eyes. The size difference between them was laughable, but even the giant man flinched at Sailorboy's New York patented stare of doom.

"I'm talent," Spike spat.

The guard shrugged. "Sorry, bud. It's a security issue."

"Harumph! Well, I don't even want to get back in, anyway! Need take my mind off this shit night! I'm going to go do something irresponsible..."

The man in the ponytail scratched his head. "Uh...like...what?

Spike was apoplectic, a tiny volcano! "Oh brother, it's Vegas, I dunno! Hookers? Cocaine? Gambling? I'LL FIGURE IT OUT WHEN I GET THERE."

The Sailorboy, still raw over his failed match, stormed down the halogen lit hallway to the double doors leading out onto the terrace, in turn leading to a skyway footpath that branched back onto the strip.  

I'm gonna go that strip club Marcy was talking about, get wasted, and wake up in the arms of two giant stallions. Or...I'll just go to Victor's hotel room, seduce him, and sleep with him to get back Iggy. No. He'd actually kill me, then. Damn it...

Spike kicked open the door onto the cool, Las Vegas night air. Over the balcony, it looked like the city was made of starlight. But Spike was sick of stars; trying two win them, or being smacked in the face with them repeatedly. At least he was alone.

No, apparently not.

Spike sniffed the air. Deodorant and testosterone. There is a jock nearby. To his left, a young, stocky man, took a long drag on a cigarette. Spike almost didn't recognize him. But then again, know they enemy...

Cian Enbarr, in one of his dumb band T-shirts (he thought he was so damn cool) and his shorts. Always the shorts! Fucking hell. The last person I wanted to see...

The Faeblood Brawler laid eyes on him before Spike could even open his mouth and lob a half-hearted insult his way. "Not in the mood, boyo," he said in a small, tired voice.

Spike blinked, taken aback. He calmly closed the door behind him, leaving them both to each other's cold company. "Hey, why are you so upset anyway? At least you won your match. I mean, you also turned Usagi into Jello, but--"

"What about 'not in the mood' are you not able to get through your pretty head?" Cian snapped. Well, it wasn't really a 'snap'. He sounded like he was on the ropes. Defeated. It almost made Spike feel bad for him.

 "...Pretty?" Spike beamed. It was the first time he'd been complimented by him! Wait, no, that's not a compliment...

Cian let out a trail of nicotine, and tossed his cigarette over the railing. The wind caught it. "I've been penalized. I'll have to sit out the next few matches. All because of that stupid shit Usagi said to me...."

This was weird. Cian was being...conversational. Vulnerable. 

Blindsided, Spike tried to say something nice to him for once. "Er...you just need to get better control of your powers. It'll happen eventually." 

"I don't need YOU telling me how to be a spellbreaker, sissy!

Spike's first instinct was to turn around and deck Cian right in the mouth. The last thing either of them needed, however, was more fighting. A cooler head prevailing, Spike crossed over to the railing and placed his hands on the cold metal. The desert sky opened before him, and green lights illuminated the nuclear heart of the city at its core. With his head still rattled from Iggy's assault, Spike felt a tinge of vertigo, and drew back.

Spike took a deep breath, opting for light-hearted sass instead of a left hook to the jaw. "Okay, first of all, I find the word 'sissy' hilarious...not offensive." He glared down at the pack of Lucky Strikes in Cian's hand. "Second, give me those." He yanked them away before Cian could do anything about it, and took one out for himself.

Cian balked. "Oy! That's my last cigarette!"

Spike placed the cigarette to his lips, not caring that he didn't even own a lighter. He walked triumphantly towards the opposite side of the terrace.

"Not smart to turn your back on a trickster, boyo."

Suddenly, Cian was standing in front of him, blocking his path!

"Mine."

Spike blinked, putting two and two together. He could even see through the slightly transparent hunk standing in front of him. "Puhlease. You're just...a mirage."

Then, the real Cian behind him: "But I'm not."

A pair of extremely muscular arms wrapped themselves around Spike's midsection, squeezing him like an orange for juicing. He lifted him off the ground. Spike dropped the pack of cigarettes but kept the loose one fastened between his teeth.

"UGH! A reverse bearhug. Oh my goodness, yours is worse than Kengo's! My ribs are already sensitive! Here. Take your stupid cigarette!" There was only one left in the pack anyway.

Cian dropped Spike and picked up the Lucky Strikes. He put them up his sleeve instead, and generously offered Spike his a lighter.

Spike shielded Cian's hands and his flame. It was shockingly intimate and considerate of him, and had Spike's thoughts not been preoccupied with feelings of utter failure, he might have mistaken the gesture for flirtation.

Spike took a long drag, enjoying the taste of tobacco, but knowing it was probably best not to pick up a filthy habit. "When did you start smoking, anyway, C?"

"Since exactly ten minutes ago. I bought the last three in that pack off a stage hand back there for a few bucks."

Blowing smoke, Spike took the butt out of his mouth and stared at Cian, annoyed. He jabbed the cigarette in his peer's face like a threatening dagger. "This is dumb, Cian! And look who that's coming from. We're magi; we already have slightly shorter lifespans than non-glyph users. Don't go ruining your career by getting lung cancer or em...emaceema!"

Cian snorted. "...You're trying to say emphysema, aren't you?"

"Fuck off," Spike said, but he couldn't hide the amused smile. He looked down at the stick in his hands, thought about it for a moment, and dropped it to the ground. "Ugh, why does smoking look so cool but has to be so bad for you?" He ground it with the worn heel of his high tops. "You know, I don't get you, C. You're an amazing fighter. You have a killer body. People think you're awesome. Why you gotta' be so cold and distant always?"

Cian crossed his arms and looked away, maintaining his distance. "Gee. Ever thought I just like to be alone?

"Hey, man, that's on you. But I don't get it.

Cian scowled at him. "Well, it must be exhausting trying to get everyone to like you all the time..."

Up until this point, Spike had tried to be patient with his rival, but even he had his limits. Still, he was too emotionally spent to be angry. The floodgates were open, but what poured out was much for inwardly directed. 

"Look, I don't need EVERYbody to like me, Faeblood. Just...a few people to like me a lot. And life isn't all gumdrops and lollipops for me right now, okay? I lost my match. I haven't gotten laid in MONTHS. I'm actually lonely as SHIT. I feel completely incapable of my abilities, and I'm considering quitting the GSA after tonight. It sucks. I suck." He stared out into the night, feeling empty and embarrassed, mostly that he'd just poured his guts out to the last person he expected to give a shit.

"And you're right. I do care, Cian. If I actually had a handle on things, I wouldn't have just poured my feelings out you. But you happened to be here. So, just forget I said anything and—" 

"I'm sorry that's all happening to you."

Spike looked over at Cian. He was staring down at the ground, not able to make eye contact. "What?

Cian looked up. He considered the cigarette in his hands and dropped the butt to the ground, crushing it with his shoe. "I said, I'm sorry that's happening to you, boyo. But honestly, I think you're being a bit dramatic."

"I'M BEING DRAMATIC!?"

Cian smirked. But his eyes smiled. "Yes. You went up against one of the strongest and meanest spellbreakers in our fed. I thought it'd be an easy squash. It wasn't. You gave 'em hell, boyo. I saw."

Spike looked around, confused. Was this another one of Cian's pranks? "You...watched my match?"

"Hey, don't get any funny ideas, now. But you did well. So stop beating yourself up, idiot!"

"Well, er...same to you, idiot!

"FINE!"

"FINE!"

The two fighters looked at each other, both of them breathing heavily, shoulders raised. And after a few seconds, they both burst out into laughter. This was dumb. They were being dumb.

But it felt good.

Cian nodded to the door behind them. "You better get inside. You don't want to miss the champion take on the local villain."

Spike sensed this was just Cian's way of politely telling him to get lost, which he actually did appreciate—it was a refreshing change from Cian's usual rudeness. But then, the subtext hit Spike like a brick up the side of his head.

He gasped, suddenly overwhelmed with excitement. "Wait, like, the GSA champion?"

"Yeah? Who else?"

Spike threw out his hands and gripped down on Cian's shoulders. "Cian, we gotta' get in there!"

Cian turned a bright shade of red. He pulled back. "Hey, watch the merchandise, boyo."

Spike ignored him, lost in his own schemes. "Ugh, but that grunt at the door locked me out. How am I gonna get in? I could bribe him. No, I could seduce him! Ugh, but I'm too tired. I don't have the mojo right now—"

"I'll handle it," Cian said, opening the door before Spike could protest. "Just follow my lead. And don't say anything!" He glared at his companion to drive the point home.

Spike screwed his face up in confusion, but did as directed, stepping back into the sterile, halogen soaked hallway. He wasn't sure he could trust Cian as far as he could throw him (without power magick, that is). He turned to ask Cian a follow up, but he froze in his tracks before he could get the words out. Because Cian was gone.

Colt, tall and strong, looked back at him. "Hm?"

Spike blinked. "C-c-colt! When did you get here?" He whipped his head back whence he came, and then towards the branch at the end of the hallway. "And where's Cian?"

The cowboy, dressed in his fancy button up and bolo, crossed his arms and gave Spike a long, hard look. "Take your time with it...boyo."

The wheels turn. Spiked gave it a moment, before his slack jaw reeled up inside his head. "Holy...shit."

Cian, or Colt (or Cian as Colt) pointed to the turn up ahead. "What did I tell you, boyo...I mean...pardner?"

Still caught up in disbelief, Spike looked up at the transfigured fighter. He'd never seen a Mind Glyph user pull off a glamour like this before! He snickered mischievously. "I'm getting so many ideas right now..."

"Me too," Cian sniffed, in his own voice. "Like piledriving your sorry ass into the pavement!"

"Okay, COLT. Ha! Piledrivers aren't your style anyway. Thank Goddess, I can only imagine how much it would suck to have my face pressed up against your massive, musky bulge as you jumped up into the air SLAMMED my neck between your enormous thighs and completely broke my pathetic--"

"SPIKE."

"Shutting up now!"

Spike and 'Colt' approached the corridor leading back into the colosseum. It had been intermission when Spike had ducked out in disgrace. He'd forced himself to stay put and support Kengo during his match with Silverback (a spellbreaker who could transform himself into gorilla) and even felt a second-handed victory at Kengo's triumph. Still, it was short lived, spoiled instead by thoughts of inadequacy and comparing himself to his talented, handsome, and beefy roommate. 

The black shirted grunt with the barrel chest and the action-movie ponytail was still standing sentinel at the door. Spike tried not to blow cover. For once, he let someone else do the talking.

The grunt's eyes lit up at the sight of the tall, statuesque cowboy coming toward him. "Oh! C-colt."

Cian looked him up and doubt. "Er...howdy!"

Spike did everything within his power to suppress a laugh. 

The grunt, who obviously did not express a glyph of his own (otherwise, he might have detected magickal trickery) nodded and opened the door for the fake GSA president. "Right this way, sir."

Colt and Spike stepped through. Once they were sure the door was shut tight behind them, they both collapsed against opposite sides of the hallway, and exhaled.

Spike shot Cian a smug look. "...Howdy?"

'Colt' melted into streams of green light, somewhere between shards of glass and melting ice, that evaporated around the 'core' that was Cian. Though he tried not to show it on his face, his sweaty skin and ruddy face suggested that shapeshifting took a toll.

"Kiss my ass," Cian replied. But there was a touch more light heartedness in his cutting jibes tonight.

Don't tempt me with a good time, Spike thought hungrily. There is a lot of ass to be had... He nodded to the lobby, rife with the scents of artificial popcorn butter and cheap beer. It was an odd sensation, being back in a type of space he'd been familiar with as a spellbreaking fan—the outside looking in. He had seen quite a few locker rooms in the last few months, not so many lobbies. It was a nice reminder of why he liked the sport, back before everything had become stressful and about winning, getting 'over' with the fans.

His eyes fell on an explosive marquee poster of two ridiculously muscular men in skimpy stringer shirts fleeing an array of helicopters and missiles. "Oh wow!" Spike said, pointing to the advert. "I forgot the new Himbo Patrol was coming out. I gotta' see it!"

Cian raised an eyebrow. "What the hell is that?"

"CIAN!" Spike gasped. "You mean you've never seen Himbo Patrol!? It's about these two buff friends (who are definitely, secretly lovers) who always accidentally get involved saving the city. My favortie part is when a firey explosion rips their stringers off. You should see it sometime; Zeek—the one with the long, dark hair—kills the bad guy by smothering him with his pecs!" Spike sighed. "Lucky dude..."

Cian rolled his eyes, but Spike's earnestness was admittedly infectious. "Alright, Himbo Patrol, let's hurry before we miss the show. Ah, but first thing's first..." He pointed to the concession booth. "You're buying us a round of beer. You still owe me for those cigarettes, lad."

The atmosphere inside the colosseum was electric, and not just because of Colt's presence. It had already been one hell of a night, with Iggy and Spike's outrageous match still fresh on the memory of most fans. Spike, who felt completely naked, had switched into a more subtle, black 'GSA' shirt to blend in with the crowd. Even so, as he and Cian wove in to their designated area, fans noticed them and stopped to give them words of encouragement.

Both fighters looked at each other, equally confused. The praised was a shock to either of them, who both felt sore about their matches in different ways—though none more sore than Spike, whose ribs and torso still ached from Iggy's finisher, soma aside. Both trained sportsman as they were, Cian and Spike smiled graciously, but steered their fans' attention back towards the incoming match, as Colt would have wanted them to.

Y'all can be dicks inside the ring, but once you're out of it, you still humble even in character!

Spike found his seat and handed Cian his beer, content to play food and drink caddy for the moment. "Good thing you got us back in. Kengo told me that Colt was gonna announce something big at the end of this last match."

"Oh yeah," Cian said. "I'm surprised he managed not to spoil it. You know how he is."

Spike laughed. Cian really was tolerable when he wasn't frustrating. He was also frustratingly handsome, too, but Spike knew better than to chase that dragon. Besides, he was more invested in taking his mind of his losses and finding out the identity of the GSA champ. With that in mind, Spike scanned the crowd and found Colt's VIP box. There the old tomcat was, chatting to both of his female companions, like a king situated between two queens.

"You think Colt'll let us into his VIP box?" Spike casually asked.

Cian lowered his plastic cup of beer from his lips. "Not a chance, lad. Plus, you see those two babes he's with?"

"Deadass!" Spike declared in quintessential New York agreement. "I know Marcy on the left; she's the dancer that Gio, Victor, and I ran into the other night. She's super nice. Don't know the other chick though."

"I can't believe our boss telling us to be on our best behavior, while he goes around like a tom cat. A woman on both arm! Wonder if we should tell Buck..." 

"Ugh, right? Not only is he straight, but he's like GOOD at it too." A thought occurred to him just then. Spike gave Cian a quick look over. "By the way, I never asked you, are you..."

"Whatever you are about to ask me, here's a word of advice: don't." The hard look Cian gave Spike spoke for him. "I'm trying very hard to enjoy your company."

"...Well....is it working?"

Cian ignored the question. "You give much thought to who's gonna mentor you when we get back?"

"No," Spike said, ashamed. He knew it wouldn't be wise to bring up that he was questioning whether or not to quit the GSA entirely after tonight. Besides, he had no idea what Silver or Gold Star class man he'd pick to coach him. "I guess I sorta' like everybody."

This answer didn't appear to satisfy the hard-edge spellbreaker. "You're...not going to base it on who you have a crush on, are ye?"

Ough. "I have a crush on everyone, Cian, so that's not like...OH SHIT IT'S STARTING!"

Dimmed lights and hard rock music sent the already excited audience into a spiral of cheers. All eyes fell upon the entrance at the helm of the aisle, awash in a 'radioactive' green light. Smoke, flashing lights, and an air raid siren heralded the challenger to the GSA championship.

Boomer Harlow, wearing a flashy, tiger-striped shirt now, raised his voice over the din. "Ladies and gentleman! Coming from the nuclear wastelands, it's the menacing mutant himself. The radioactive avenger...Fallout!"

Fallout, the radioactive warrior, was nearly seven feet tall and looked like he had a steady diet of steroids for breakfast each day. His oiled muscles protruded out of his bright, green-and-black tight-singlet combo, with his pecs threatening to snap the straps right off. An appropriately themed nuclear hazard symbol stood out at the center point of his gear, just over his abdomen. With long, greasy, black hair and a bit of stubble to boot, he was terrifying to behold, but handsome in a greasy, leather-daddy way, Spike thought.

Like everyone else in the audience, Spike drew back in horror and disgust, though he admittedly loved Fallout's accessorizing of his gas mask and goggles. "Points for entrance gear," Spike whispered to Cian. "He's scary."

Cian shrugged. "Most of these guys are all talk. You just watch."

Fallout, the mutated hulk, stomped his thick boots down in the ring, and even shook the ropes like a wild animal to show off how scary and crazy he was. The audience jeered him, but it only served to bolster his rowdy persona. Even the ref, saddled with radioactive resistant lead apron and gloves, shrunk back from him, not even wanting to get close enough to pat him down! A rare wielder of the Atomos Glyph, it was said that the mysterious Fallout exuded a deadly aura, and that even getting close to him was enough to be knocked back with a hefty dosage of rads.

The radioactive heel ripped off his gas mask and tossed it to the corner. "Time to blow this place UP!" he growled, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Caught up in the excitement of the fight, Cian leaned into Spike to give him the juicy background info. Though Cian was 'too-cool' most of the time, Spike had heard his penchant for gossip, and the wily Faeblood had a penchant for collecting rumors. "I heard Atom and Eve doesn't like him because he's a bad representative of atomic safety."

Spike cocked his head to the side, smugly. "Well, duh! He's a bad guy. You're not supposed to like the bad guy, Cian."

Cian took in a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. "I need more beer..."

In the ring, Fallout stanched the mic out of the poor ref's hands. The man retreated, terrified to enter Fallout's 'contamination zone'. It was a miracle the mic didn't melt in the fiend's hands (fortunately, he had been forced to wear gloves). "Hey, all you pipsqueaks out there gambling your fortunes away. Take a look at me! This is all mutant muscle!" He flexed his rippling arms for the audience, who replied with a tidal wave of boos and rude gestures.

Except for Spike. "Mmmm. I just love bad boys."

Cian blushed. "You're not supposed to like him just because he's beefy and bad!"

In a certain mood already, Spike shot a knowing look at his companion. "I said what I said."

"Ingrates!" Fallout roared back at the critics. "I'm gonna blow this place sky high and send it crashing to the Earth! Las Vegas ain't nothing but a shit hole, using atomic energy to make you all fat and greedy and complacent. If this were the wasteland, I'd hunt down every last single one of you and eat you alive!"

Spike growled back. "Fallout, baby, I'm gonna eat you."

Cian took Spike's beer out of his hands. "That's it. No more for you. Do you watch this sport to horny, or to be entertained?"

"Two things can be true, Cian."

In the twilit arena, Fallout gave off a subtle, ominous glow. He was a juggernaut of magick and muscle; not even Spike could think of anybody he knew among the GSA roster who could stand a chance against him! 

Even Boomer Harlow despaired. "Oh no! Who will save us from the nuclear apocalypse!" Or did he? His eyes betrayed a knowing glint. "Wait a dang minute, folks...did it just get colder in here or what?"

Spike whipped his head to the entrance arch. "Hey, it's snowing!"

Sure enough, soft flakes descended from the rafters. Beams of white light highlighted the aisle. Less sinister, but equally badass, rock music filled the speakers anew, reinvigorating the crowd. This was it! The champion. Spike wondered who they could be. Was it going to be a last minute twist, and Colt would appear? Was it going to be John Henry, in his full-metal getup? Or had Spike overlooked some other hunk or hunkette capable of going toe-to-toe with the muscle freak, Fallout?

A strong, tall shadow emerged from backstage, the GSA championship belt slung proudly over their shoulders. While not as huge as Fallout, their musculature was simply extraordinary, every abdomen, bicep, and quad carved and chiselled out of marble. Their outfit was unique, black tights cut out strategically to reveal their massive thighs and slender waistline, with a white tiger-stripe speedo concealed underneath a red, traditional Chinese loincloth, complete gold embroidered lettering and red rope tie. Their wrist wraps alternated between black and white, and their hair was likewise a gradient of black with frosted, white tips. They looked like a superhero who had made the jump from the page to reality.

Spike's eyed widened with recognition. "No...way!"

The fighter hopped up and down and shadow boxed with a furious dazzle of punches, faster than the eye could follow. They let Boomer do the talking for them. "Coming to the ring, the original Singapore Slinger! The warrior of wind and water and the yin and yang king of the GSA. Yes, folks, bow down, bow down before The Platinum Champion. The White TIGER!"

"WHAT!" Spike shouted, glad Cian had taken his beer from him now—he would have spat it out otherwise. Spike turned to his pal. "Joseph is the champion!?"

Cian laughed. "Took you long enough!"

"Wait, so is Fallout challenging him for the GSA championship belt? But Fallout isn't even in the same fed. How does that even work?"

"Don't worry too much about it, boyo, just watch the show."

Joseph, or White Tiger, carried himself with a heroic dignity that nevertheless suggested he was not to be challenged. There was no doubt he was magnanimous. He took his time shaking hands, doling out high fives and fist bumps, all with his sharp, staccato, and graceful movements. This was a man who knew how to use his body with precision. Spike had gotten a taste of his powerful presence several times, but that was nothing compared to energy exuded by White Tiger.

Once upon a time, a younger Spike had laid eyes on Colt the Bolt and knew that mortal men could be as a gods. Older Spike, who hadn't felt excitement for this sport since becoming a player himself, suddenly remembered what it was like to stand in awe of a hero.

"Oh my Goddess..." Spike said. "He's...so...HOT!"

"Yeah," Cian said, without thinking. He flinched. "I mean, he's not a bad looking guy, no."  

White Tiger wiped his feet on the ring apron (babyface 101, of course) and stepped inside. He nodded politely to the ref, handed him the belt for safe keeping, and then locked Fallout in his predatory stare. Even Spike, yards away, felt a chill run up his spine. He'd been wowed by El Amante's charisma and sex appeal, been intimidated by Gio "The Titan's" godly strength, and had long worshipped Colt's electrifying power. But White Tiger was something else. Even without seeing him perform, Spike knew why he was the Platinum Champion of the GSA. 

Apparently, Fallout hadn't gotten the memo. The muscular brute pointed and laughed at the intimidating warrior that loomed before him, unafraid. "Ha! What a prettyboy. Nice loincloth you got there, princess."

Joseph undid the ceremonial breechcloth, unthreading the red rope and tossing the piece of entrance gear to his post. "Thank you for the compliment, Fallout. But I'm afraid your reign of terror ends here."

He released the rope, which shot straight up and narrow, suspended in the air like a cobra ready to strike. The movement was so quick that the audience reacted likewise with awe and applause, much to Fallout's displeasure. 

Joseph's shone radiant silver, in the dark. "It ends with me, and my red rope of fate."

Spike looked to Cian for clarity. "Sorry, rope?"

"Yeah. White Tiger is really good at manipulating wind and water."

"What! He's a dual glyph user?" Now, it made sense why he was so formidable. Dual glyph wielders were a rare breed, and carried extraordinary power. Gio was one of them, being a master of the earth and vegetation.

Cian explained further. "Yeah, Joe's thing is that he leaves his opponents tied up and bound. He takes the gear of those he deems dishonourable."

Spike blushed. "You gotta be fuckin' with me, Cian. He STRIPS and then HOGTIES his opponents?"

"Well, not always in that order." Cian shrugged. "And only if they're bad guys."

"Wow, that's so weird, Cian I think I just had a heel turn..." Spike jabbed a thumb in his chest. "I'm a bad guy now!"

Cian's response was to punch Spike, painfully, in the shoulder. Enough of that.

While Spike was summarily impressed, the bestial Fallout was far from it. He loomed closer to his opponent, who was not afraid of his radius of radioactivity. "I'm going to melt that flesh right off your bones, Tiger! You won't be so pretty when your skin is sloughing off, your pretty face covered in boils, and your mind warped to my liking! You'll be my mutant slave."

Spike felt like a little kid again, watching these two titans of good and evil try and intimidate the other. Shit, this is good. This is why I love spellbreaking!

"Hm." Joseph suddenly back flipped into the air, landing on his feet with feline grace. The audience. Gasped. "I am Joseph Haw, the White Tiger." He shot his left and right hands. A swirl of white snow spiralled around one, and an inky black stream of untethered water orbited the other. "Your fate is already known to me. And the only destiny I see for you...IS DEFEAT." His eyes intensified with the silver light, which enveloped him in a white aura rivalling Fallout's unearthly green glow.

Spike's jaw dropped. Then, the bell rang, and the fight began.

To describe the match between White Tiger and Fallout would not do it justice. Spike himself would tell you that 'you'd have to have fuckin' been there, deadass', in order to have really experienced the intensity and spectacle of it all. Suffice to say, it was a contest between two spellbreakers in their prime, and equal bout between magick and brute strength. The atomic juggernaut was a master of grappling and body blows, but each time he tossed White Tiger, the King of all Babyfaces landed on his feet, without so much as a strength. His movement was like that of a gymnast, warrior, and dancer, all in one. Befitting his dualistic powers and aesthetics, there was a feminine grace to his executions, combined with a masculine aggression. The Tiger was pretty too look at, but just as vicious.

In other words, Spike was smitten.

But the Pinup Prince had also come a long way from merely drooling over dangerous dudes. He'd picked up a fighter's studiousness as well, and White Tiger's moveset was a thril. He seemed to switch between styles and stances. He used his wind to enhanced his high flying techniques, his hammers and flips from the ropes, propelled by his aerodynamic flow. It reminded Spike a lot of the wuxia and kung fu films he'd caught late night at the orphanage growing up. Nobody could be faulted for thinking White Tiger was connected to wires, with the way he sailed through the air, delivering spin kicks and elbow jabs to his larger opponent, wearing him down.

And if wind was White Tiger's offense, water was the defense. The dastardly Fallout was big, but was quick too, and he had a habit of trying to pull or latch onto the quick moving Tiger as he danced around the ring. Seeing as Fallout's touch alone was dangerous, vis-a-vis his atomic touch, White Tiger couldn't afford to get caught in his grip. That didn't seem to be much of a concern, however. His parries and counters were like water, using Fallout's own momentum against him. Each counter-move was punctuated with a blast to the face or body with the high pressure, inky 'black water' that Tiger summoned out of the air. In one particularly crowd popping moment, White Tiger struck Fallout on one side of the face with a solid 'fist' of water, only to follow it up with a white hook of snow-driven wind.

Even Cian wasn't immune from totally marking out over the champ's techniques. "This is awesome!" he squeaked, fists punching the air. "Go White Tiger! Sink those claws into that bloody bastard!"

Spike was totally caught up in the energy too. "All my life I've strived to be that pretty and that powerful. What a hero hunk!"

The match wasn't exactly a stalemate, but both fighters had worn each other down significantly. While White Tiger had danced circles around Fallout, the mutant menace had likewise gotten in a few atomically charged blows, draining Tiger's stamina. Both men were bloodied, bruised, and saturated with sweat. Circling around each other like beasts ready to sink their teeth in for the finish, they huffed and dripped bodily fluids onto the canvas.

Fallout was the first to glow in intensity. His green, radioactive aura burned brighter. He went for a takedown from the bottom. White Tiger responded in turn by driving his foot back, ready to clamp his arms down around Fallout's neck and drive him back, or towards the mat. But it had been a fakeout! Instead, Fallout snapped up and drove his knee right into White Tiger's chin, with a sickening crack.

Cian and Spike's dual reactions were visceral, with either spellbreaker wrapping their arms around the other for comfort. "This isn't good!" Spike said, before realizing what he was doing and breaking free of his hold on sweaty Cian. "Come on Tiger!"

White Tiger's eyes rolled up into the back of their head, their body limping. Fallout wouldn't allow it to hit the canvas. Instead, he shoved White Tiger's head between his giant, smelly, radioactive thighs, pumping White Tiger full of rads.

"GOT YOU!" Fallout roared. "Succumb to my atomic piledriver!"

Spike's eyed suddenly bugged out. "Wait a minute! He doesn't see..."

The giant, arm-shaped water construct snuck up behind Fallout, unaware. Though the blow to Tiger had indeed been devastating, he had been playing possum. With his hand limp at his side, he'd subtly conjured his watery assault from behind his opponent, none the wiser.

The punch struck the back of Fallout's head with the force of a tsunami, forcing the dazed giant forward, like Goliath struck by David's sling. Tiger pivoted around and made a sweeping, graceful gesture with his hands. The ring shook, and from the center, a double helix of wind and water shot up in a geyser of the elements, lifting Fallout into the air, holding him aloft.

"Wow!" Boomer said. "Hope y'all got your ponchos ready, folks! White Tiger has a habit of getting the audience wet. And I don't just mean from his water magick, either."

White Tiger jumped, or rather, flew to the top rope, landing with expert poise. He pointed to his captured opponent, trapped within a prison of undulating water and icy wind. "Your fate is crystal clear. Face the Retribution of the Four Guardians!" 

Spike had learned enough about spellbreaking by now that their were limits to physical moves, which were often enhanced by magick, and usually reserved for finishers and special attacks. Rarely, did the two combine so dynamically. Right in front of Spike's eyes, White Tiger redefined the boundaries of magick and fighting. He jumped off the rope, suspended in air by his wind, and launched a fury of kicks and punches, faster than the eye could track. This brutal attack was combined by three other phantom 'White Tigers' joining in on the beatdown, all of them materially composed of seperate elements: his black hued water, snow-swept wind, and a White Tiger made from solid ice. The four pronged attacked was, perhaps, the most devastating finishing move Spike had ever witnessed. Fallout's body contorted and twisted with each strike, like a rubbery cartoon character.

And when White Tiger was at last satisfied, his three 'doubles' and the conjured geyser evaporating into a crystalline snow, the 'real' Tiger wrapped his muscular legs around Fallout's neck, inverted him with momentum and strength, and rode his body down to the canvas, head first.

WHAM!!!! 

A massive tidal wave of water splashed out from the ring, cascading over the apron, and splashing the stunned and excited audience. Boomer Harlow, at his mic table, was already prepared with a flowery, Hawaiin printed umbrella. Thankfully, White Tiger's magick evaporated the overspill almost instantly, much to the relief of temporarily soaked audience members. Not as if most of them cared. They would have gladly thrown themselves into the drink twice over just to re-witness the absolutely transcended match all over again.

It had been a long minute since Spike had seen a whole stadium get to its feet in rapturous enthusiasm (certainly not for one of his recent matches). Spike joined them in the cheer. "Holy shit, Cian, he smoked him!" So this is White Tiger's power? No wonder he's the champion of the GSA. Colt must be so proud.

Fallout, stunned and broken on the canvas, curled up like a dead spider. He wasn't going anywhere. White Tiger rolled him up for the pin, a clean count out. The bell rang. The ref raised his arms. And White Tiger stood over all like a godly hero, head raised eye and eyes shining in the dark. Spike had seen only one other spellbreaker look this great in victory; and that was Colt the Bolt. He realized then, as White Tiger put his hands together and bowed to the audience, mouthing 'Thank you', that the Tiger was likely to the new generation of spellbreaking fans as Colt was to Spike, growing up.

While the audience was still on its feet, foaming at the mouth, and White Tiger's anthem blaring loud, the feng-shui spellbreaker motioned for his red rope, piled in the corner. It snaked through the air, a dutiful servant. Yet, it did not go towards its master, but his master's defeated opponent instead, the completely neutered Fallout laying at his feet. White Tiger made a graceful, twisting motion. The rope wrapped and tied itself around Fallout as if guided by invisible hands, snaking along his arms and feet, intertwining with the rune-laden ringside ropes as well. Fallout, already delirious, couldn't do more but grunt and wriggle, a fly caught in a spider's web...or a tiger's trap.

Spike blushed and opened his mouth. "Don't say a word," Cian warned him.

Boomer Harlow was in hysterics, his voice several octaves higher than usual. "LOOKS LIKE THIS ATOM BOMB HAS BEEN DISARMED! Tiger's wrapped him up like a Yuletide ham!" 

A lock of sweaty hair fell over Fallout's grizzled, stubbly face. "You rat bastard," the atomic maniac spat.

White Tiger leered down at him and placed his gas mask over his face, effectively muzzling him. "Watch your language, you radioactive freak." He looked down at the heel's eye-punching green attire, in disgust. "You are not worthy of a warrior's armor." 

The Tiger reached down and grabbed a fistful of Fallout's gear, even as the malcontent shifted and raged, grunting furiously. Tiger ripped it off in one go, like peeling a band aid off a particularly festering scab.

Cian had to support Spike from falling over. "NO WAY!" Spike sputtered. "This is gonna awaken something in me, I just know it."

"At this point, what's even left to be woken up in you?" red-faced Cian challenged.

Fallout's muscular body, full exposed, was indeed intimidating. However, what wasn't intimidating was his skimpy black thong with the a yellow smiley face tactfully placed over his crotch. He wriggled around, like a pathetic worm, while the audience pointed and laughed.

White Tiger held the gear up like a freshly skinned pelt from a legendary beast, a Nemean Lion. "This is my trophy. When others ask who humbled you, Fallout, tell them you fell at the hands of the White Tiger..."

With another whip-crack flick of his wrists, Tiger retracted the rope, which unfurled itself and coiled around its master's muscular forearm, dropping the humiliated Fallout to the cold, ring floor below. The cameras made sure to zoom in on that.

Whit Tiger looked on, cocky and proud. "Hmph." He would be sure to mount this humbled villain's gear on his wall later, as he did with all the other bastards he'd bested (he was starting to run out of room). He politely accepted his championship belt back from the ref. He held it up high, with both hands, and let out a frightening roar.

"TRY TO TAKE IT, PUNKS!" Tiger shouted, while a jet stream of wind and water wove around his body for dramatic effect. He was satisfied with the reaction from the crowd. He'd done good tonight. But, just as Joseph "The White Tiger" went to leave the ring, a familiar face stepped in on the opposite side, mic in hand.

"Hey there, Joseph, not so fast!"

White Tiger glared over his shoulder, but his expression changed immediately. "Hey there, boss. Fancy running into you here."

Spike and Cian both lit up. "Colt 'The Bolt'!"

Sure enough, the cowboy king (wearing his white, cowboy hat, naturally) stood tall and proud, waving to the adoring old guard in the audience. His blue button up shirt threatened to rip off him (Spike had heard from Buck that Colt deliberately wore a size down to show off his muscles).

Colt grinned, and now Spike understood the stark contrast between the GSA champs, former and current. Colt was all razzle dazzle, a powerhouse. White Tiger, on the other hand, was a brutally quick warrior with a cold stare, and a dignified, heroic aura. 

"Hehe." Colt looked to the ground, watching the medical staff wheel away Fallout, his bare ass exposed on the gurney. "Let that sorry bastard get his ass out of your ring first." He handed the mic to White Tiger.

Now, Spike understood that White Tiger had the charisma as well. Joseph was a cool-toned gentleman. The smoothest of the smooth. That carried over in ring as well.

"Well, I don't rarely share a ring, but I think I can make an exception for a true hero. Ladies and gentleman, give it up for Colt The Bolt, president of the GSA and a true champion of my heart." He gestured to the cowboy king.

Colt genuinely looked surprised, and a bit caught off guard, but he accepted the jubilation and chants of his name from the crowd all the same. "Thank you," he said, waiting for the crowd to die down. Spike and Cian knew he was lapping it up like a kitten to a bowl of milk, no matter how 'humble' he put on.

"Aw, shucks, kid..." Colt scratched his hair beneath his cowboy hat. "You'll make me blush."

"Ha! Kid?" Tiger's bashful reaction was remarkably endearing, and a stark contrast to the warrior that had essentially mangled a full grown man only minutes ago.

"Y'all young guns are kids to me!" Colt continued. The air around him crackled with excited electricity, barely contained. "Now, listen up folks. I'm a man of few words, nut I wanted to thank you for coming to our summer series. What a finish! But this ain't the end of the line, y'all. Because I'm hear to announce the new big thing in Spellbreaking. Something that hasn't been done for quite some time."

In the audience, Spike turned to Cian for explanation. But the Faeblood brawler cocked his head to the side. He knew just as much as his 'friend' did.

There was glint, a scheme, a youthful mischief in Colt's bright eyes. "See...I've been getting a bit ornery 'bout the fact that we don't have a real Global Champ no more...

"They were erased from all of time and space," Spike whispered casually to Cian.

"Yeah, Spike, everyone knows."

Colt scanned the audience for Semyon Grigorivich, his equivalent. The bastard was nowhere to be found. So be it. "Turns out, Firebird Pro Spellbreaking has been thinkin' the same thing as me..."

White Tiger led the audience in a loud 'boo'. 

Exactly as Colt wanted. "Yeah, yeah, I know. And I promise you, folks, the GSA and Firebird ain't puttin' our differences aside. But we are gonna' put on one hell of a show. And not just a show, but a whole damn world tour, to decide who will be the next global champion!"

A fresh wave of excitement washed over the crowd, while Colt and White Tiger struck heroic poses in the ring. Cian and Spike could hardly restrain themselves. 

"What?" wide-eyed Spike declared. "A global tournament!?"

Cian practically glowed. He wasn't shy about grabbing Spike's shoulder (perhaps, in his enthusiasm, a bit too forcefully)."We're in the big leagues now, boyo."

But the cowboy king hadn't made his peace just yet. He patiently waited for the crowd to settle. It was short lived, but a barely perceptible look—of uncertainty, perhaps—dawned over Colt's face. He looked to White Tiger, Joseph, his apprentice and successor. The handsome, younger man smiled back at him and nodded. You got this, chief.

Reinvigorated, Colt 'The Bolt' pointed out into the audience. "Semyon Grigorivich, I know you're watchin' this. I've just laid down the gauntlet. I ain't fond of your brand or your attitude. You made me ornery, which is why it's time I brought back the storm myself to show all you little boys how a real man handles business."

A peel of thunder crashed over the arena, along with an accompanying flash of lightning. The crowd gasped, too stunned to react to this massive drop.  

In any case, Spike was dumbstruck. "No way. He's not..."

"You heard it hear first, folks," Colt said, ambient static teasing his hair. "The cowboy king is back in the saddle again and is coming outta' retirement for this Global Showdown!" He pumped the air with his fist and slammed the mic onto the canvas. He didn't need it to get his message across. "Howdy, howdy, let's get rowdy!"

Burst of localized lightning sent down a shower of sparks onto the apoplectic audience. It wasn't so much a pop but a full on explosion. One that Cian and Spike found themselves caught between.

"I'm freaking out, Cian!" Spike said. He felt like a little kid again.

Cian shook his head in disbelief. "Yeah, and so's Buck when he hears this!"

"Huh. You think Colt didn't tell him?"

"I..." Cian started. It was hard to hear him anyway, over the din of the audience. "Knowing those two, no, he didn't. It's going to be interesting times when we get back to the ranch."

As Colt finished posing from the ropes, White Tiger strutted over smoothly, scooping the mic up from the mat. "Ahem. If I may, Colt. Not to steal your thunder, of course, but all of you wonderful audience members are truly lucky tonight. Because you're looking at the next global champion, right here." He patted his belt, slung over his shoulder. "I hear a lot of noise about this Vahni Rage. He think's he's real bad. But you know what I think?" 

Cian and Spike both leaned in. In anticipation.

White Tiger was ice cold. "I think his shiny little trunks are going to look really good over my mantel."

The audience: "ooooOOOOOOOOOH!"

"Damn," Cian muttered, duly impressed. "That's good heat."

"But Joseph doesn't even have a fireplace," Spike argued. "None of us do! Colt's too cheap..." Before Cian could sneak in a comment about Spike's intelligence, the cocky and pretty muscleboy winked at him. But his tone wasn't playful or light. In fact, Spike's voice, a few octaves lower than usual, sounded 'deadass' serious. 

"Plus, I'm gonna be the one who beats Vahni Rage."

It was as if White Tiger had heard his younger peer throw down the challenge...and maybe he had! He looked out into the audience. "And if any of my fellow spellbreakers think they'd like a shot at the championship. Then they can feel free to step into my Tiger's den. But there's nio guarantee they're coming out alive." He lowered the mic, allowing the audience to resume their ecstatic, almost Dionysian frenzy. The energy in the ring was insane, and it wasn't all just from Colt 'The Bolt'.

Nodding to each other, satisfied at their showmanship, White Tiger and Colt 'The Bolt' exited the ring together, as equals. They'd done the fed good tonight.

Meanwhile, Cian gave Spike a questioning look and a cutting grin. "You want White Tiger to break you just because you think you gotta' shot at Rage?"

Spike shrugged. "A win-win as far as I can see it."

Speaking of which, White Tiger had just walked up to their side of the barricade. The handsome champion shook hands with the fans right in the front, but he looked specifically in Spike's direction. 

Spike gulped. Shit. Maybe he had heard.

But there was only friendliness on White Tiger's face. He winked to young friend, and then held a small piece of paper, or envelop to the air. He let his wind carry it over the heads of eager audience members, all too excited to notice, right into Spike's hands.

"Huh?" Spike looked down at the small envelope. Cian glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, what's this?"

He opened it. It was a note.

To my adorable fan, Spike,

Good hustle out there tonight, kid. You gave 'em quite the show. Now, dust your shoulders off and get back in there.

Your champion,

White Tiger

AKA Joseph

P.S. Have a sticker! ^_^

Contained within the folds was a vinyl sticker stylized, black-and-white striped tiger head, Joseph's logo. Spike held it in his hands as if it was the most treasured object he'd ever touched.

"Oh, White Tiger, you're my new favorite!" But Spike's glittering eyes narrowed. "Which is why I'm gonna have to kick your ass someday. Because you're lookin' at the next GSA Champ!"

"Heh." Cian was quick to steal the wind from Spike's sails. "Good to see you got your confidence back. But let's not get hasty, boyo. World Tour? I'll see you on my home terf. We're gonna settle this rivalry once and for all!"

Spike turned and sneered at his rival. "Don't tempt me with a good time, Cian. You're on." He was ready to posture and try and goad Cian on a little more. He was feeling feisty anyway, his confidence renewed. But before he could throw out another remark, he caught sight of a flash of blue fur moving quickly down the stairs right next to their seating area. 

Marcy Diamond, pale as a ghost, looked towards Spike and Cian.

"Huh, Marcy?"

"You guys need to het backstage, right now," she said, nearly out of breath. "There's been an accident..."

To Be Continued