*TV static*
Cut to: Interior, gym room. Rockabilly plays over a jukebox propped up against the far wall. Industrial wall fans cool off a humid room, with a floor laid out in linoleum tile. Free weights sit on crumbling mats. A view into an open locker--a blue letterman jacket with an anchor embellished on the collar. A pinup calendar, with the portrait of a handsome, muscular sailor, tacked to the side of the metal locker.
Sitting on a bench, a beautiful young man--around twenty-three years old--does a concentration curl, his biceps rippling, a picture of hard masculinity on an otherwise soft-featured, almost angelic body. Spike Waterford is a blonde bombshell, a boy-next door with a several dirty magazines and a case of beer hidden under his bed. His blue eyes smile before he does. You can feel a million hearts break through the camera. If Bobby Vinton became a pro wrestler or a pinup boy instead of a slow dance crooner, he might have been Spike.
"Whew, what a sweat! Oh hey, didn't see you there! Well, hey there, all you pretty people out there in TV land, it's me--Sailorboy Spike. Just getting ready for my big fight against Vahni Rage, which I'm sure you've heard all about now. And I gots a message for that hot-head.
You know, Rage, this spark of yours really has turned into a flame. I know you're supposed to be this big, bad guy, and heck--your reputation definitely shows it. No doubt about it. You're one of the best, even if your tactics are sneaky and cruel.
But it's high time your flame got snuffed. I've fought like hell to get this far. I've been all over this world, kicking ass...and winning hearts. *wink* And, even though I'm a simple boy from Brooklyn, one thing I've realized is this:
All roads lead to you. You're the one I'm meant to take down. Call it fate, maybe. But your reign of terror ends with me, Rage. I'm taking you out on your own turf. And when I crush you, you'll understand why they call me--Sailorboy Spike--the man with the strength of a whole Navy fleet! And after I'm through with you, I'll make sure you lift your cursed brand from every opponent you've ever beat. As for that prize money? Well, it's going back to those who need it most. I'm already a rich man, you know *pats heart* I got love in surplus, something a wicked, hateful heart like yours will never so.
*Spike strikes signature, one armed bicep and winks at the camera*
"So, whaddya waitin' for? Let's dance, Ragey boy."
*TV Static. Cut out*
----
"You sure about this, Yank?"
Standing in the corner of Spike's dorm room, Colt crossed his arms and watched Spike pack his suitcase atop his bed. He had a lot on his mind, but right now, he was wondering just how much underwear a guy could fit into his suitcase (or needed, for that matter).
Spike had harbored many thoughts of Colt being in his room alone with him before, which is why it surprised him that he didn't think much of the situation at the moment--his mind was singularly focused on the fight ahead. The fight against Vahni Rage, his nemesis (and one of several crushes).
"Vahni Rage called me out," Spike sniffed, tugging on his sweaty undershirt. "This heat's been turning up for awhile." He latched the case shut, sighed, and looked over at the handsome cowboy giving him a concerned, fatherly stare. "I'm a Brooklyn boy at heart, boss. I never back down from a challenge."
Colt had never seen Spike this serious before. It bothered him, actually. Where was his ray of sunshine? Was Buck's brooding streak rubbing off on one of his top, rising stars, and possible baby face successor?
"Rage is not a challenge," Colt said, sharply. "He's a damn killer, boy."
"Okay, but has he actually killed anybody?"
Colt blinked in confusion. "I mean...not that I know of, but he's certainly ended some careers. Some can only protect a body from so much damage, and Rage loves dishing out punishment."
Inside, Spike bristled with excitement at these words. "You know I can take a lot."
"Get your brain out of the gutter a damn second and listen to what I'm saying, Mr. Masochist! You're too young and too promising to go out on a fight like this. Rage is playing to your ego, which we know is the second biggest part of you besides your damn rear end. I know heel tactics. I put plenty of heels in their place before. He's a smart one. He's trying to rile you up, weaken your defense, and then smeer you when he has you. And The Lady's truth, I wouldn't be shocked if this was Firebird trying a more lawful way of taking out one of my best men." Colt finally allowed himself the freedom to breathe. "They tried this s*** with Tiger, in Vegas."
"They tried to assassinate Tiger, and his would-be assassin is still out there."
"SO YOU CAN SEE WHY I'M A BIT CONCERNED!" Colt roared, as a roll of thunder resonated somewhere outside. He placed his hands over his face. "Doc says I have high blood pressure. Thought it was for raisin' a sensitive, queer son with somethin' to prove. Now? I realize it's because I'm raisin' ten!" He slunk against the wall in defeat.
Spike frowned. "Hmph. Sounds like you don't believe in me, boss."
"Now, hey, I didn't say that."
Spike jumped off the top bunk, landing with a cat's grace. He struck a heroic pose for his coach. "I can do this, sir. I will do this. I'm your rising star! White Tiger is gonna shoot for the world championships, probably, meaning you're gonna' need someone with charisma to go shoot the GSA title."
Colt, summoning patience, placed his palms together. "Boy, you've only been here for little more than a year. Let's see you try tellin' that that to Iggy's face, or Gio's, or El Amante."
"In that order? I'd get my arm broken, I'd get a confused stare, and I'd get a half hour conversation on the importance of being humble."
But Colt was serious. And Colt serious was a scary thing. "Young sir, if I may be bold, I do think you're getting a bit too big for those white, babyface boots of yours. I'd let you go out and get humbled by some bruiser if I knew it'd be good for your ego, but Rage is going to do a lot more than bruise you."
For the first time since he'd started training here, Spike was actually annoyed with Colt. The star power and heroism had long since faded. That was the trouble getting to know your heroes. Or, rather, trying to date their children.
Perhaps Spike wasn't thinking when he shrugged, dismissively, and said, "Well, Buck believes in me."
Colt tried not to look annoyed. "Yeah, don't get me started. I already told him he's not going to India. We'll see if that sticks. And you know this is more about a contest, don't you, Spike? That venue is Rage's family's temple. And our intel suggests a Chalice is locked in their vaults. Firebird is going to be there, which means this isn't just a standard match, boy, but a trap. And I'm making myself abundantly clear to you, right here, right now, I will not have my one and only son get hurt because you decided to play hero."
Now, Spike understood why Buck was so frequently frustrated with Colt. His desire to control others was so cleverly masqueraded as concern. Or, anyway, that's how Spike tried to read it. Truth be told, he was scared. Dead scared. Which is why he didn't want to show his boss anything other than a bit of cocky arrogance.
He was also starting to get more protective in Buck's behalf, which didn't exactly help this rapport shift. Spike faced his boss, and former champion, head on, locking eyes in a stare down. Colt looked more confused than intimidated, of course.
"Yous all can deal with the Chalice," Spike said, finally. "I'll deal with Vahni; knock him out of the contest, and put Firebird on the backfoot." Yet, as always, Spike couldn't really commit to the rude gimmick. He decided on a more reconciliatory tone. "I got this, boss. You can count on me."
---
*TV static*
Cut to: Interior, a torchlit arena, flanked with ancient pillars. Shadow and light play eerily and beautifully across the sacred hall. In a somewhat unusual contrast, a wrestling ring sits in the center of the brazier-lit space. The camera pans across the broad, oiled, muscular back of a long haired man. Lit by torchlight, he seems a living statues, carved of bronze or gold. Godlike. But with a dark aura. Still, there is no denying the raw truth that Vahni Rage is a beautiful and powerful man.
He speaks slowly, with a rich baritone and a velvety accent--beguiling and dark. This is a man who does not need to raise his voice to convey meaning. Just look at him. He pauses, patiently, arrogantly, and addresses the camera, and Spike's retort.
"My beautiful little lion; how I've longed to tame you. But considering how you've been mewling like a sick little kitten, I may just have to put you down and skin you alive instead.
"You wouldn't be the first 'so-called hero' to test the Fire God's patience. You've seen what I've done to others. Nothing but ashes. I will mark you, Spike. And this time, I'll be sure it's your best feature. Not only will I end your career, I will make you my own personal pet.
*Rage holds up a golden collar, like the one a particularly wealthy master would choose for their dog. The name tag is legible on camera: SPIKE*
"I've already picked out the collar. I think it will look good on your pretty, little neck, my lion...if I haven't crushed it, that is. Oh, and I hear you intend to use the prize money for your sad, little orphanage. You know, I can hear those places can be...quite flammable. I think once I have broken all of your bones...I'll make you watch as I set your life and dreams aflame. HAHAHAHA!"
*TV Static. Cut out*
----
Two very large, very scary man sat on a terrace overlooking the misty landscape below them. The towers and stupas stood out of the sunset-laden fog like the bones of massive creatures. The ethereal conjunction of sunset and humid mist made it look as if the whole of the temple complex was covered in molten gold.
Already, the sacred fires were being lit. Vahni could see them lighting up like lightning bugs around the perimeter. He smiled, something seldom seen on the 'Wrathful Warrior of Flames', and he cradled his tea in his hands.
"Wow," the jackal-masked man, even larger than Rage, said from across the table. "I bet not many people have seen you grin and live." He sipped from his tea. "A pity. You are actually quite handsome when you smile, you know?"
And how quickly did that moment of levity fade. Rage looked at Jackal, annoyed that he'd entertained this private visitation.
"You really aren't going to burn down an entire orphanage, are you?"
"Of course not," Rage grunted, rolling his eyes. He took out a cigarette and lit it with his fingertips, planting it between his lips. "I may be a sadist, but even I'm not that evil." He exhaled smoke, and shrugged. "But...it makes for compelling TV, and I am, first and foremost, an entertainer."
"And a smoker too, apparently."
"A blue moon," Rage said, on the verge of annoyance. He presumed he could dispatch this double-crossing informant if he wanted to. He sensed no powers there. But he had invited Jackal here for a very good reason.
"Now," Rage began, "you must understand that the last thing I wanted was personal matters to interfere with business. Unfortunately my...employer and I no longer see eye-to-eye."
Behind his golden, canid mask, Jackal grinned--as sinister as the beast he meant to emulate. Rage couldn't see behind the robe covering his body, but he sensed there was muscle there, and quite a bit of it. "So you're going behind Grigorivich's back at last? Heh. Well timed. Semyon and I's arrangement fell apart."
He meant to lull him into security. It wouldn't work. Rage leaned in, eyes burning with warning. "I'm not an idiot, Jackal; I know a double-crosser when I see one. Do you know how many betrayals I've masterminded on my own?"
"Then how can I expect you to trust little old me?"
"I don't. But this is where fate has led us. You are the card I have been dealt. I intend to play my hand tactfully."
"I'm a wild card then, and let's get one thing straight, Jinder Mahal, I don't get played."
Rage narrowed his eyes. "As always, your references are beyond me. But, knowing the man I am, the fact that I have even allowed you--the most suspicious man on the planet--into my temple should tell you that I am either very desperate or I have found partnership beneficial to the both of us."
"You're not desperate. I know desperate man. Your backup plans have backups, Rage. I've seen you fight. You're probably one of the first truly cerebral heel I've seen on the circuit."
"Flattery may get you some places with me, but not right now." Rage exhaled. "How do you like the tea?"
"Delicious. And considering poisoning isn't your M.O., it's probably one of the first cups I've truly enjoyed in awhile. But let's get back to our discussion. You have the most powerful pyromancers in the world guarding your family vault. And they're very easy on the eyes, I may add. That said, they won't be enough to handle Redback. That spider is in a league of his own. He's not just a spellbreaker. He's an assassin."
Rage nodded, absorbing what his unusual guest had to tell him. "Oh, I should think they'll serve as a fine distraction while you take him down yourself. And yes, I know you're more than capable. I detect no glyph from you, but I've done my research. Seems you're no stranger to wetworks yourself. And these targets have mostly been magi. Do you know the disadvantage those without magick have against those blessed with glyphs? You're good at what you do, Jackal."
Flattery here was a two-way street, it seemed. "You don't trust me...yet you're giving me the key to your family vault, and you're basically using your own kin as cannon fodder? Are you really the most wicked man on Earth, or are you actually insane?"
Rage grinned again, but this time it was less pleasent. "My family possesses millions of treasures. I can afford to lose one. Grigorivich cannot. And I don't really care if you take the Chalice yourself, only that it doesn't fall into his hands. Besides, if you do take it, I promise you that I can akways hunt you down myself, if I so decide."
Jackal laughed, and finished off the rest of his tea. This was shaping up to be a much more interesting title fight than he'd anticipated. "Well, well. How interesting. And do you know what I'd do with it, if I did decide to turn on you?"
"You need all seven. One is with the Black Library. One, still hidden in Australia. Four are with Aradia. And the last one is under my protection."
"And what happens when Grigorivich finds out his star champion is working against him...?"
Rage stood up from the table and snapped his fingers, summoning one of his servants to take away their plates and cups. "Oh, I have plans for Semyon. And for Firebird." He straightened his collar and brushed off his jacket. "But first...I have a lion to tame."
*TV Static. Cut out*
The last board meeting for the GSA was both routine and fraught with tension. Colt, no longer the big cheese, did his best to stand by an let Buck take command. It helped that Varla, in her orchid color power suit, was good at diffusing issues before they got too far. There was also Bruce Halsetti, from sXs, up from Sydney to put Colt and Buck--bound by laws of Texan hospitality--to put on their most peaceable faces.
Colt was actually very welcome of the new arrival. He'd wanted to reach out and work with sXs for awhile. He liked smaller feds, for one, and foreign feds even more. Spellbreaking was still small scale in Australia, sure, but there was business to be had there. Frustratingly, Buck was intent on sending their best guys over there. Colt, wary of the current state of affairs, wanted to keep the GSA on their home turf.
"Need I remind everyone," Colt said, folding his hands on the table, "that Sydney Harbour was nearly wiped out by a giant monster." He looked in Buck's direction. That Spike and Buck had both together gotten themselves that close to danger still gave Colt high blood pressure.
Buck avoided his gaze. All the same, Bruce, a blokey and amiable sort, laughed it off. "That doesn't really happen all that often. And the city is going to be putting out heaps more security to make sure it doesn't happen again."
Colt looked between Bruce, Buck, and Varla. Though nobody would address the obvious, it was clear to Colt what was happening here: he was being pushed out. By his own son, former lover, and a foreigner he still didn't know all too much about. And the last thing he wanted to do was complain to Salim and sabotage their funding.
The meeting adjourned, and Varla and Bruce out of earshot, Colt followed his son back up to their house. He was several paces ahead. Back turned.
"What's this about you courting Spike now?" Colt said.
Buck groaned. "Well, hello to you too, old man. You barely said a word to me in the meeting."
"It wasn't appropriate to raise it back then. But...don't tell me it's true."
Buck turned around to face his father. "So what if it is?" He shrugged off his concern. "The heir and the champ. Sounds like 'big business', as you said. Or is it a problem because he's a man."
Normally, this was the part in any fight with Colt where thunder and lightning would start up. Instead, the temperature suddenly dropped.
That was new. And, Buck thought, probably not good.
Colt looked down at the earth. "I'm not sure he's the right kind of man for you, if you want me to shoot straight, partner."
Buck hadn't heard his father, normally stormy-tempered, sound so...dark before. He wondered if he shouldn't be pushing things with him. Then again, this was probably just another attempt at control and coercion. Typical Colt.
"So you're cool with me being bi until it affects publicity?"
Colt snapped. "Boy, this ain't about who, but where you stick your d***. What have told you TIME and TIME again about shittin' where you eat, BOY?"
The wind picked up. Buck flinched. He hated that his father could still put him on edge. Still, he was a big, scary, muscular man who could fight and yell.
Thankfully, he was also kind at his core. Colt, understanding that he'd stepped out of line, tried to lasso himself back in. "Pardon my French. But you did this stuff with Rosa too."
"Oh, is that why she 'suddenly' went to Okami? Because she 'got an unexpected offer'?"
Now, Colt looked hurt. The wind died down. "Do you...do you really think I'm that manipulative?"
Now, it was Buck's turn to fume. He'd had it. He could run the GSA better than his old man, and he knew how to treat its employees better.
Buck squared his shoulders up and looked his father in the eye. "Well, sometimes I wonder. I mean, nobody who gets this far in a career like this has got clean hands, right?"
"Look, I know we've had our ups and downs, son, but we can talk this over..."
But Buck didn't want to talk. He was tired. He was worried for Spike. His anxiety was eating him alive. And, more than anything, he was sick of his father trying once again to put him under thumb.
"Forget, dad. Just..." Buck swallowed his words. He turned and looked away, going off in the direction of the gym. "Just don't talk to me for awhile. I don't know..."
Colt did not follow him. Nor did any storm or rain cloud stir up and overtake the ranch. The tall man just stood there, arms folded to his chest, heavy hearted, watching his son shrink into the horizon.
----
Five days later.
Spike couldn't remember the dream that had stirred up awake. It was dark on the plane, the drone of the engine a loud lullaby. All this time in the air made him miss the turbulence of Deadboy's dark corridors. At least they saved minutes.
Spike looked over at the man in the seat next to him. Buck was awake, scribbling on a sketchpad in the half-light. He hadn't slept at all.
"You okay, Buck?" Spike whispered.
"Yes," Buck answered right away. He put the pencil down on the tray. "No."
"Hm." Spike wasn't very good at saying the right things to make people feel better, or so he thought. He just placed his hand over Buck's instead. They were both dealing with a lot.
"It's alright," Spike said. "I'm glad you're coming to India with me."
Against his father's wishes, that was.
"Of course," Buck said. He tried to find his confidence. Spike's touch helped. "I'm going to see you crush Vahni Rage for good. You...uh...scared?"
Spike slunk his shoulders back into the seat of the plane. "Weirdly, nah. It's...I dunno, a weird peace. I just know I have to do this." He tightened his fist. In the dark, his blue and orange energy was a visible, dull glow.
Buck lowered his eyes and flashed his--always jarring--sadistic grin. "Take him out."
"I will," Spike said, with intent. But this was not the time for battle. He leaned in closer to Buck, out of eye-shot from the others. "And when I'm done, I'm gonna take you out." He gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
Buck sighed, wondering if Spike ever realized that the energy he accumulated inside of him always transferred over when he touched someone else. Either a punch, or a kiss, Spike was a potent man.
"You mean, on a date, right?" Buck clarified. Just to be sure. Not that he wouldn't mind getting 'slammed' by the Pinup Prince.
Spike just winked at him. "You'll have to find out!"
The two men held each other's hand over the arm rest. Neither of them wanted to let go. Not for all the world.
To Be Continued
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