The temple courtyard was encircled by three tiers of seating, with an upper balcony looking down upon the action. Firelight from ceremonial braziers, torches, and stacks of candles cast the whole arena in a somber, red glow, as statues of divine protectors watched serenely from all corners of the breath-taking temple yard.
Vahni Rage's family had, since the time of the Mughals, watched over The Temple of Agni ('Fire'). Even then, fierce battles were held on the court. According to local belief, the warrior gods took delight in contests of strength and ability. Spellbreaking was no exception.
Due to the rules surrounding the sacred structure, the usual light rigging and sound systems commonplace in most fight venues were not permitted in the temple court. Combatants would fight by firelight, without the usual fanfare and lightshow to bolster their personalities. The atmosphere, then, was more serious than most spellbreaking matches--far more primal, akin to the ancient origins of the sport.
The audience waited, holding their breath. Among them, seated at the front row, was Buck. Colt, some ways behind him, watched along as well. Not in attendance, however, were the other spellbreakers. With Firebird present, Colt had expressly forbade them from entering the arena, lest creeps such as Redback try to intercept them...or creeps such as Firebird's president, Semyon Grigorivich, watching affairs unfold from his private, screened balcony at the top of the temple. Vahni Rage's family, too, were in attendance, but per their personal agreements, were likewise concealed from the other attendees.
Temple security was assigned to the ring perimeter, ensuring neither the spectators nor the fighters got too out of hand. Their traditional crimson vests and golden adornments, were eye-catching. They themselves could have passed for spellbreakers, considering their physiques and the power they exuded.
From among the wall of intimidating guardsmen came the referee, a handsome fellow with black, slicked backed hair. He had been assigned from the spellbreaking commission himself to monitor the fight, and would not be so easily pushed around or intimidated. As he entered the ring, the audience stood respectfully, bathing in the energy and the fire glow.
The announcer, a man in a tuxedo, called out the terms of the fight over the mic. "This match is scheduled for one fall, by three-count pin, ten-count knockout, or submission. Introducing, from Bhubaneswar, India, at 6’5” and 255 Lbs, 'The Wrathful Warrior of Flames', Vahni Rage!"
Even Colt was surprised to hear the audience cheer, rather than 'boo' Rage. Made sense, of course. This was his hometown. "That doesn't bode well for Spike," he said under his breath.
To stave off anxiety, Buck scrawled on his portable sketchpad. The sights and colors of India had been most inspiring to him, but over the course of the last few hour, his inspiration had taken a more North American turn. He'd been working on a sketch of a stag, a mighty king of the forest--and for no real reason. He'd always drawn on (and drawn) animals, for strength. He needed a lot of fortitude these days, with everything going on, and with his mind constantly turning towards Spike.
Buck put the sketchpad under his seat and narrowed his eyes at the entrance arch, another grand construction in this beautiful arena. He drank in the intensity of the arena, thinking that, had he a glyph of his own, he'd gladly take on Rage.
But not to play the role of the hero. Oh no. Buck knew what 'real' heroes were like, which is why he was sitting so far apart from his father, Colt. It was much more fun to be bad. In a way, he envied Rage. Even a sadist like him could get a big pop. People just had to respect him.
Or else. Buck smirked.
A wall of fire billowed up from the floor, nearly blinding the audience members on the barricades situated at either side. The pyre burned tall and bright for a few seconds, drawing attention from all the crowd's tiers. Even those in the far back could feel its heat. Their eyes zeroed in on a dark shape emerging through the flames.
Unburned, unbreakable, Vahni Rage looked made out of polish copper. His muscles were oiled, and flames leaped off his golden gear in great, long tongues. He had chosen special trunks for tonight--gold--with ruby-studs placed alongside the intricate, traditional stitching. He truly resembled a war god.
Instead of his normal scowl, however, he smiled, extending his hands to the crowd. He soaked in their adoration and worship.
This was a new side of Vahni Rage, Colt thought. He had to admit, the man truly was a genius--he'd gotten the science of being a 'heel' down pat. This was a rare glimpse of 'babyface' gratitude on an otherwise villainous scoundrel. Rage was home, of course. These people, no matter their caste or wealth, were no his usual 'tasteless peasants'. They were friends and family. He was their war god, disposing of foreign threats.
Which already positioned Spike for a very intriguing narrative...
Further more, and likewise uncharacteristic, Rage was gracious about shaking hands as he strutted down the aisle. He took his time. He wanted people to bask in his divine glow.
And Buck, who had his own private heel streak, could tell he was being genuine about the whole thing too. He clenched his fists. He wanted blood. A darker part of him wanted to see Spike draw it, tear him aside, the animal instincts activate. Maybe even, he wanted Spike to be bad.
There was no showboating or ostentation when Rage entered the ring. No climbing the ropes to pose or intimidate. He stood still, eyes focused on the entrance, as the ref patted him down. He was serious. A lion in waiting (with the mane to match). Still, not to be completely magnanimous, Rage reached inside his (quite snug) trunks and withdrew the object he had promised to use on Spike upon his defeat: the golden collar. He held it high to the sky, admiring it affectionately, as if it were his prized weapon, before handing it to the ref.
Buck growled. "I swear, if that man gets to put Spike in a dog collar before I do..."
Backstage, Rage's rival in blue approached one of the temple guards and took the small, iridescent white vial of soma from his hand, tossing it back.
"Blegh. Tastes worse than usual."
Spike wiped his mouth and waited for his cue. He felt like he had been thrown back in time, back to his match with Ryan Hartley. Nerves jittery. Heart racing. Spike felt like he was about to throw himself into the tiger's cage.
Only that was more than a year ago. Look how far he'd come? So many matches. So many victories.
Well, a fair amount of losses too.
And at the very worse, Spike thought, touching the base of his neck, at least I get free jewellery on it? I bet I'd look kinda' snazzy and naughty in a dog collar.
Because that was the thing these big, nasty brutes always forgot. Spike liked punishment. He could take it as well as dish. Which meant he had one leg up on all of Rage's former opponents who'd fallen at his feet.
He was unstoppable. Spike took a deep breath, thought of Brooklyn, the orphanage, and stepped forward into the heat.
Eyes darted towards the arena arch. This time, the wall of fire burst from the floor anew. Only this time, it wasn't a torrent of raging flame, but a fountain of blue sparks.
Buck held his breath. "Come on, Spike..."
At first, Buck was concerned there may have been a booking mistake, or some backroom dealing that had sabotaged Spike's 'moment'. He failed to recognize the tiny, but intimidating warrior in the blue velvet robe that emerged from the fountain of blue light. Then, it hit Buck. Spike had done the one thing that only a queer man worth his pride knew to do to show the world he was deadly serious, that he hadn't come here merely to play, but to win.
He'd gotten a haircut.
Closely cropped at the sides, with a vestigial sweep of blond locks cutting sideways across his brow, Spike no longer resembled a boy--but a serious man. All-American to the core, there was something very superhero, almost militaristic, about this new side of Spike. Still, the sparkle in his eyes, which matched the literal sparkles showering down around him, told Buck that this was still his boy.
"And Rage's challenger, at 5'7" and 224 Lbs, all the way from Brooklyn, New York, Sailor Boy Spike!"
A trill rose in Buck's chest. Suddenly, there was no question Spike could pull this off. Even Rage, standing in the ring and sneering at his prey, couldn't hide an excited glint in his eyes. Buck picked up on that look. He was mildly impressed.
Then, came the boos.
Buck winced. He couldn't see it either, but Colt grimaced too. Of course, this was Rage's hometown! They should have known this would happen. Didn't matter how much of a bad guy you could be--on your home turf, the crowd was in your favor. Rage had given them a god worthy of worship. Spike was a squeaky clean American foreigner who looked cute enough to break.
Worse, Buck knew Spike. He was emotional. Easily riled. And he devoured praise as much as he could devour a deep dish pizza in one sitting.
This wasn't good...
But if Spike was unnerved by the crowd going against him, he didn't show it. His eyes only narrowed with resolve. As he wiped his feet on the ring apron and stepped through the ropes, Buck caught a flash of the muscle hiding behind his robe. Spike was always sexy, of course; that was part of his gimmick. But he always presented himself as an object of affection. This Spike, this new babyface hero hunk, was the kind of guy who made you want to get picked up and taken home.
Buck gulped. Am...am I baby now? White Tiger would have been proud of his babyface heir apparent. And Iggy, Spike's mentor, would likely scoff in amusement.
Spike allowed the ref to remove his robe, as Spike remained immune to the boos and jeers (something that tickled Rage to no end). Then, a slow shift too hold over the the audience. The ref pulled the robe away from Spike's body. Not only had a little bit of a tan (spray, of course) had bronzed him out, but a subtle oily sheen accentuated his muscles as well. His gear was blue velvet, with a silver-embroidered anchor over the crotch.
Buck recognized his work, and instantly melted. He looks so sexy.
The blue and silver contrasted with Rage's red and gold. A perfect matchup. As Spike held his muscular arms up to the audience, giving them an 'aw shucks smile', the crowd suddenly turned in his favor, the cheers drowning out the boos. His heroism was infectious.
Rage's eyebrows arched. How dare they? His own people? Then, he came to a more profound realization. They weren't cheering just Spike. They were cheering at both of them. In their eyes, this was an even match. And even a narcissistic heel like Rage could appreciate that this made things a whole lot more interesting.
Rivalries like these seldom ended in words exchanged in-ring before the fight. The ref allowed Spike to stare up (not so much a stare-down) at his opponent. His scowl, however, turned into more of an excited sneer. As did Rage's. Wordlessly, chests pressed against each other, the two men expressed their desire to se the other destroyed, just as much as they expressed the need to dig into each other in a more passionate sense. This was a blood lust, in either sense of the word.
The ball rang. Neither man wasted their moment.
Rage threw his hands up and Spike rose to challenge him. The two locked up in a test of strength, with Spike (having absorbed no glyph energy to activate his super-strength just yet) digging in deep, and Rage meeting him with his might. The crowd was surprised to see such a tiny stud like Spike struggle against his much taller, muscular opponent. Whispers ran among the audience. They knew somewhat of Spike, and his win his streak, but usually Rage's opponent's were far too intimidated to take him up in a match of muscle like this, let along at the start of the fight! Was this American really unafraid?
Rage, however, wasn't going to be shown up by a pipsqueak. Without warning, he turned his hold on Spike's right hand into a wrist lock, twisting Spike down and bringing him to his knees.
"Agh!"
Spike fell down in front of Rage, trying to wrench is hand free from the monster. He placed his other hand over the massive man's hand, realizing then he had never gotten locked up this tightly before. With part of his long hair dangling over his face, Rage looked down at his opponent, devoid of empathy, or mercy, and glared.
Spike gritted his teeth and rode the tension, allowing it to convert back into power. Connected to Rage like this, their bodies were circuits, tension and drive flowing from one to the other. And it wasn't like Spike had any other choice--it was either get out of this, tap (humiliatingly) or lose an arm.
So, smiling, Spike planted his left foot on the ground and pushed up and against the tension.
Rage glared. "Hm?"
"Didn't think it was gonna be that easy, did ya, pal?" Spike pushed back against Rage's force, and then dropped to the ground, going for his leg, picking his left ankle, just as Rage went to go kick his face. Spike got their first, using the push and pull momentum to throw Rage onto his back and free his hand.
The audience gasped. Colt and Buck's eyes bulged out of their heads. This was already a thrilling start!
Spike's heart had never raced faster--not when he'd fought Ryan Hartley, not even when he kissed Buck while the world was quite literally falling all around them. Spike and Rage may has well have been fighting in their own reality, with time and space distorted. Adrenaline coursing through his tight, muscular frame, Spike dropped his foot between Rage's legs and twisted them around before the heel could react. Spike had been fine-tuning leg submissions specifically for this moment. This match wasn't going to be about theatrics or flair. He needed to beat Rage as quickly as possible and walk away unscarred and unbroken.
As Spike sat down to drive his foot into Rage's joint, the fire user suddenly pivoted to the right, shifting all his weight. His legs, like the rest of his body were massive. Veins and muscles bulged as Rage swung Spike over, breaking the lock and reversing the hold, putting Spike into the same vulnerable position!
"Essssh," Spike hissed through his teeth as he found his joints bracing against Rage's pressure.
Rage smiled, whipping his hair back and enjoying the sight of his rival suffering. "You tried to put an Indian into an Indian death lock. Did you not SEE how this would end for you?"
The pain was especially intense tonight, Spike thought. Maybe it was just the visceral nature of the fight. Nevertheless, Spike's glyph activated, converting tension and pressure into strength. Usually, Spike's tactic was taking enough hits and dishing it back out harder and faster, overwhelming an already exhausted opponent. Right now? He was having to expend his power budget just keeping Rage from dominating him.
Spike summoned his strength and rolled to the right, carrying Rage with him. The audience reacted with surprise. To reverse the move would invite two other leg-locks Rage could easily throw back at him, so instead, Spike opted for defense, ripping his legs free and jumping up to his feet. With Rage still on the ground, he had only the smallest window in which to react. Spike flipped over Rage (who nearly grabbed his foot at the last second).
Just out of reach, and gymnastics proving effective for him, Spike volleyed off the ropes and jumped into the air, bringing both of his meaty legs down across Rage's chest.
"Agghh!"
It had been awhile since anybody had heard Vahni Rage react to a blow before. Even Spike was surprised, and suddenly renewed with confidence. The audience couldn't believe it! Was this young upstart really proving a threat? Wasn't this supposed to be a squash job? Somewhere in the world, bookies were already biting their fingernails.
But the damage to his body wasn't as brutal as the damage to Rage's pride, and that he could not forgive. Roaring, he shook off the impact (ribs be damned; Spike was heavier than he looked) and grabbed Spike around the waist. he threw him back over his shoulder, onto the ground, in a sort-of seated suplex.
"I'll show you how to hit like a man, boy!"
Spike winced, hitting his shoulders and collar bone. Damn it, he's rough as hell.
Rage whipped around and, eying the watchful ref, jumped up and slammed his elbow into Spike's chest, then again and again.
"That's enough!" the ref called out.
Buut Rage wasn't listening. True to his name, he saw red, and only wanted to beat Spike bloody and senseless--subdue him, take away his hope, make him completely submissive to his will. "I'll break your ribs, you worthless brat!"
SLAM! SLAM!
His elbow drives were like daggers to the lung. Spike spat out a mist of saliva and persipration, with each impact. Not even the soma could dull this, apparently. In fact, as a thousand scenarios ran through Spike's head (mostly how he was going to shake off this literal jack-hammer assault) he wondered if the soma tasting 'off' wasn't just his imagination. Was it possible that something had gone wrong with the formula?
Even the audience was concerned. Colt, leaning forward, stone faced, started considering if he should begin greasing the right palms of the staff here to try and call off the match. Spike had almost convinced him he was ready to fight too.
Sitting in the front row, Buck thought nothing of Rage's brutality or Spike's ability to take it. Instead, his fists tightened, and a primal anger stirred within. How dare he hurt what's mine. Like destroying a piece of art, it was senseless. For Buck, pain and sadism was all about pain and control, not disfigurement and whatever this unbridled display was. These people deserved a heel with finesse, not someone who couldn't restrain their temper.
Head next to Spike's, almost tenderly, Rage purposel let his sweaty hair fall into his opponent's face as he whispered, "I'm going to collar you, lock you up, and make you my toy, lion. I will own your life. You will be MY prize."
A trickle of blood leaking from Spike's mouth, the blue-eyed fighter looked up and sneered. "I bet I'd look better around your waist than a belt, anyway."
Rage sucked his teeth, appalled that this boy could still bark back at him! The next blow, Spike spat up a wad of blood. Even Rage stopped for a moment. It was enough for the ref to intervene. And unlike the meek little men Firebird had arranged specifically to let Rage get away with whatever he wanted, this man was a serious professional.
"I don't care who the hell you are," the ref spat. "Or how much claim your family has to this ring. Hit him like that again, and you're disqualified." And for added measure, he added, coldly, "And we know you won't be able to abide by that, do you?"
Rage was in war mode, so he didn't have the luxury of reading the subtext--but the confidence and tone this ref was taking with him was unusual. As he glared at the man, he noticed the corner of a tattoo sticking out from just underneath the man's lapel. Rage could just barely make out the head of a serpent, swallowing its own tail.
An alchemist? Here? His eyes travelled to the private box, where he knew Semyon Grigorivich was watching with keen interest. The bastard doesn't know, does he?
As all of this was rushing through Rage's head, Spike, pressed into the canvas below, was just trying not to die. He had definitely broken or fractured something in his chest. He knew he should tap out and call it quits here. But he had come too far, and these people needed to know the power of an underdog. Somewhere out there, there was a little kid watching all of this on a TV set (perhaps in a dimly lit storage room in a dingy orphanage). They needed a hero.
So, Spike rose. Summoning all of his energy into his cells, he pushed off the mat and went straight for Rage's neck.
"Huh?" Rage looked down. What was happening? What was this hand around his neck? How was he being lifted into the air?
The audience cried out with excitement and pent up tension. Buck couldn't believe what he was seeing. "Holy crap..."
Spike stood, drenched with sweat and blood trickling from his nose and mouth, hoisting Vahni Rage into the air, single-handedly. He breathed raggedly, all of his muscles spasming with adrenaline and energy.
The Sailor Boy locked eyes with his opponent. "Your young lion is about to bite back," he said.
Rage gargled. "That's...a stupid line."
"I DON'T CARE!"
With that, Spike SLAMMED Rage into the mat with tremendous force. He didn't even think. He just went for the pin. A scoop of the leg. A chest cover. The ref was on the mat, counting, "One...two..."
Rage kicked out. Spike's eyes went wide with frustration and horror. How?
"DID YOU THINK IT WOULD THAT EASY, MY LION," Rage spat. He was winded. Exhausted. Just like Spike. That meant nothing to them. This was beyond a grudge now. This was kill or be killed.
Rage and Spike rose to face each other again, trying to get up before the other. Rqaage struck Spike's already bruised and vulnerable chest with a fierce chop. The sound it made, when it connected, caused the whole audience wince.
Spike shrugged it off, and delivered one of his own, with the same amount of force. "Anything you hit me with,"
CHOP!
Rage rebounded and went for it again.
CHOP!
Spike felt his world spin, bit he regained his composure. His heart would give out before his body did. "I can dish back EVEN HARDER!"
CHOP!
Both of the fighters now doubled over, dripping sweat, saliva, and blood onto the canvas. The ref looked to either of them, waiting for action. The audience roared to life, unable to decide who to root for. Nobody had expected the match to go down like this. No matter who won, these two men had given it their all. But would either of them allow the other to stand by the time the bell rang?
Spike wanted to sleep. Lay down. Close his eyes. Every ignited cell inside his body told him to stop. But he wasn't going to start listening to reason now. He looked up at Rage, a bloody, sweaty mess, and smiled.
Rage's eyes burned with anger. He acted first, turning around and making for the ropes. Spike did the same. Rage was a heavy hitter. Not a high flyer. He was playing his game now.
Everything Spike had been taught, came back to him small bursts. Resilience training. Conserving movement and energy and breath. But it was Iggy's tutelage that popped into Spike's head first.
'Don't rely on those muscles...or that cute butt of yours. Remember your power. Call upon your magick. Improvise. True power unlocks in the most dire of moments, kitten.'
In that moment, when Spike wanted to collapse and sink into gentle darkness, he channelled his energy, not into his muscles, like usual, but into his brain. He figured the worst it could do was kill him.
Instead, time seemed to suddenly slow down. Or maybe he had sped up. His neurons on fire, synapses sparking to life, he looked at Rage barrelling towards him, a runaway train. His eyes fell upon his right arm, and the subtle tinge of muscle movement. He was in the process of raising it.
Spike connected the dots. A clothesline. A knock to the throat would likely break his windpipe. There was no coming back from that. Spike dropped to his feet and slid, straight under Rage's legs, as the world resumed its normal tempo.
"Huh?" Rage whipped his head over his shoulder, wondering how he could have miscalculated. He never missed!
Spike had already hit the other ropes, gathering even more energy. As Rage corrected himself, he dropped low and went for a leg sweep. Normally, a sneaky tactic like this would have normally worked on Spike. But this wasn't 'normal' Spike, and he saw it coming.
Even better, he saw an opening.
Spike jumped over Rage's head, landing behind him. He moved with the momentum, and brought his arms around Rage's abs, gripping down tightly (oil and sweat be damned). He had wanted to wrap his hands around Rage for awhile, anyway. This was even better.
White Tiger, this one's for you!
Channelling his traditional wrestling and pro spellbreaking abilities into one go, Spike bridged on his boots and threw Rage over his head in am (albeit imperfect) but powerful suplex, slamming Rage's head and neck into the mat. Spike himself thought he might pass out as he fell back with his foe, and he barely managed to keep the grip on as the ref went to count Rage out again.
"One...two..."
Just as Spike's eyes fluttered, he was kicked back into consciousness by a sharp pain in his hands. He remembered, when he was little, accidentally touching a hot radiator in the orphanage during winter. It had scalded his hands, and Sister Patience had given him a chewing out (to make it worse). Suddenly, that pain returned, three-fold.
Spike had no choice to let go. Crying out in anguish he forced himself up and looked down at his burned arms and hands, red and raw and already blistering.
The sweat sizzled and steamed off Rage's back as he rose up from the mat, a twisted phoenix. Flames sprouted from his back, forcing the ref to cover his face with his arms and hands, as the heat became unbearable.
Eyes bright red, locked onto Spike's frightened face, Rage was a demon from Spike's childhood nightmares. "You impressed me, my lion," the monster seethed. "You really did. I am glad you did not just roll over for me. However, you have made a grave mistake. You have INSULTED MY PRIDE. And in MY temple--THIS IS UNFORGIVABLE."
The burning aura around Rage changed, from crimson red to deep blue, his fire stronger than ever. Spike had no choice but to throw himself back or be burned, sitting so close. Even the guards standing around the ring, many of them fire glyph magi themselves, looked to each other with concern.
Especially as, all around the arena, the torches burst into the same color blue, sparks shooting towards the sky as Rage's unbridled magick fuelled all other sources of ignition in the room. The audience screamed out--not in excitement--but terror.
Bathed in blue glow, with the lighting throughout the courtyard colosseum shifting the same blue, Spike gazed upon Rage's true power. Even his heat-proof gear could not resist the intensity of his heat, melting off his body in sloughs. Only a golden pouch, of some material unknown, kept Rage's (impressive) modesty intact. Otherwise, he stood wreathed in blue fire, eyes burning white, standing before Spike as the true Wrathful Warrior of Flames.
"I know how your magick works now," Rage hissed, his jet-black hair billowing in the displaced, super-heated air around him. "Your strength is formidable, but it's nothing against my flame. And now? YOU WILL BURN FOR ME!"
Rage reached back, as if winding up for a baseball pitch, and threw out a solid jet of blue fire towards Spike.
Fearing for his life, Spike threw himself backwards, exhaustion be damned. He nearly collided with the ref as he did so. Damn it. This is nuts! He's out of friggin' control.
Shot with adrenaline as he was, Spike failed to notice that the flame jet had grazed his cheek.
But Buck did. Already leaning in, quite literally on the edge of his seat, he bolted up with horrific realization. "It's...not healing." He had been watching spellbreaking his whole life. He knew how soma worked. Within seconds, the enchanted elixir compelled rapid healing, scabbing over any wound and smoothing it over with super-regenerated skin. It was similar for bones, bruises, internal injuries; whether the result of physical or magickal damage.
Rage, likewise, noticed it as well. In fact, it was the only thing that momentarily snapped him out of his berserk state. For a moment, his blue flame flickered red. "...What?" He's not healing.
Fear compelled Spike back onto his feet, despite his injuries. The soma had failed. That much was clear. The reason why didn't matter now. This was now live or die. Fight or flight. And Spike wasn't running anywhere. He'd been running from monsters all his life. It was time they ran from him.
All my life, I've had something to prove. All those kids watching. If I don't show up right now, I'm nothing. I'll put my whole life on the line if I have to. I will be a hero.
Spike didn't hear Buck scream out, 'No!'. But even if he had, it wouldn't have mattered. He charged forward, into the fire.
"Something's wrong," Rage, in his clarity, barked back. "Stop this foolishness, my lion, before you get hurt." I seldom offer such charity, boy. You would be wise to take it while you still have your flesh on your unbroken bones...
Spikes truck him in the face, burning his knuckles as he did. Rage faltered, his flame aura flickering between red and blue.
"YOUR LEGEND DIES WITH ME!" Spike roared, matching Rage's battle frenzy. He was fairly certain he'd stolen that line from one of the kung fu films Joseph/Tiger had showed him, but it felt appropriate screaming it in Rage's stupid, villain face.
Somehow, Rage maintained his hold on his sense. He grabbed Spike's hand, making sure it didn't burn him. "You...will listen to me."
"I'll break you!"
Spike went for another lockup. Rage met him, easily holding him back.
"Boy's lost his damn mind," Colt spat, from his seat in the audience. "He's reckless. Gonna get himself killed."
Gritting his teeth, and trying to to incinerate his rival, Rage leaned forward. "Your soma isn't working. I am telling you this because I WILL take your life if you test me further." I am giving you a chance, Lion. You're lucky I quit that noxious elixir that...
Rage's eyes suddenly went towards the sky box, where Semyon was seat. You bastard. You tampered with his soma. And considering how Spike was fighting, Rage might have been fooled to think it had been replaced with rubedo, the 'enhancing' elixir instead. But that wasn't this. Spike's performance was authentic, all of his own. Rage appreciated underhand tactics now and then, but to rob him of a match he knew he could win...without interference...was unforgivable. It was humiliating. Someone would be punished.
Spike was only focused on winning now. Nothing else mattered. He picked his boot off the ground and slammed his foot into Rage's stomach, sending the burning warrior into the ropes.
"Hey!" The ref shouted. He dove forward to reprimand Spike, whose eyes had begun glowing with the same, ethereal intensity as his opponent.
Overdrive.
As Rage bounced off, Spike went to smash him in the face with his fist--sportsmanship be damned. Rage, however, had the same idea.
Only, he missed.
His fist did connect with someone, though. The ref. The man's body flew three feet before he came down to the mat with a gut-churning thud, instantly knocked out, and face singed with the imprint of Rage's knuckles.
"DAMN IT!" The fire beast roared. He glared at Spike, taking in overheated breaths, exhaling sparks. "I tried to show mercy...but if you insist...I WILL PUT YOU DOWN HERE!"
Rage threw his hand out before Spike could deflect. He blocked Spike's arm, bypassing his defences, and going for his throat. It was a deadly reversal of Spike's choke slam, but that wasn't the move he was going for. Off his feet, Spike struggled against Rage (already superheated and burning Spike's flesh, slowly) as the muscle monster pulled him off his feet, scooping him up.
"AGNEYESTRA!" Rage roared. He threw Spike's back down across his knee.
"GAAAAAAHHHHHH!"
Spike's shriek reverberated throughout the arena. To all but the most bloodthirsty the audience, this wasn't entertainment anymore. Colt and Buck stood up at the same time. By now, even the spellbreaking authorities at present realised something was wrong.
And behind his screen, Semyon Grigorivich tightened his fist around his skull-tipped cane and smiled gleefully.
Spike's world was pain. He didn't even want to see what his back looked like, inside or out. He twitched on the mat, fighting against passing out.
Rage, near exhaustion himself, collapsed on top of Spike. This was it. This was the pin. But where the hell was the ref?
"Your career ends here, little one," Rage wheezed, his flames beginning to die down. "Forget the collar..." He looked over at the ref. Still unconscious. This match was likely to end in a draw. But he could still put Spike away, permanently.
The beast grabbed Spike's hair, pulling him painfully off the canvas. Spike screamed out, his injuries apparent. But they weren't nearly 'final' enough for Rage. "I will end your dreams, here and now."
A commotion arouse at the edged of the barricade. Even Colt, whose eyes were glued to the ring, was briefly distracted. He blinked. "What? Buck? NO!"
"Let me through!" Buck shouted, spittle flying from his mouth at the muscular guards trying to restrain him. "I WON'T LET RAGE HURT HIM."
There was nothing Spike could do. For one, he was already near paralyzed. Yet, still, his spine was intact. But as Rage hoisted Spike onto his shoulders for his Funeral Pyre torture rack, it was only a matter of seconds before that was no longer true...
"Sir!" the tall, handsome guard holding back Buck said, "we cannot let you through. It's too dangerous."
Buck growled. "I won't ask again!"
The muscular guard next to his companion looked down at the tall, messy-haired young man and laughed. "And what are you going to do about it? Fight us? With what?" The man turned his nose up at the boy. "I can tell, you're Bereft. No magic. How pathetic."
Buck swallowed. He took a step back, his hair falling in front of his face. The guards in front of him sneered.
Then, Buck whipped his head up, his swoop of hair falling sideways--his eyes burning bright green. "On your knees. Now."
There was no resistance. Immediately, the guards were overwhelmed with a sickening fear--a compulsion to heed this man's words. They collapsed before him, trembling. Buck brushed by them, hopping the barricade, heading straight for the ring.
Colt had already broke into a sprint, dashing down the staircase. "What the hell. What the hell is going on?"
Rage held Spike up on his shoulder for all the audience to see, like a warrior ready to make the kill. "BEAR WITNESS TO THE END OF SAILORBOY SPIKE!" He shouted, muscles tightening.
Then, he heard a thump behind him. Someone had just entered the ring. Who? Who would dare?
Rage turned, Spike still cradled precariously across his shoulders. "Hmm? Well, isn't this interesting."
Blank faced, Buck maintained his withering stare on Vahni Rage, even as he peeled off his flannel shirt. Untanned, with a slightly hairy chest, Buck Tamberly was more built than Rage expected. He was no trained fighter, but he was certainly captivating.
Even the audience members commented on the unusual interference. Of course, the ref was out--what was going to happen?
"Oh damn, he's got a body."
"He's...not a spellbreaker, is he?"
Moaning, on the brink, Spike craned his head towards the opposite end of the ring. He was surely delirious. That couldn't be Buck.
Rage was annoyed that he'd allowed this little whelp to give him pause. "Hehe. Do you want me to break you next, son of Colt? I can end two golden lineages right here and now, strip your father's legacy and hope. I can think of nothing more fitting. Hahaha!"
Buck stepped forward. The room was silent. The guards--the ones not inexplicably paralyzed, that is--looked to each other. Walkie talkies crackled to life as security sprang into frenzied discussions of what to do, mostly because most people were terrified of entering the ring with Vahni Rage.
But Vahni Rage was not who they needed to fear, right now.
Buck maintained his intimidating stare. "Let him go. I won't ask again."
Rage leered. "So you like him, is that? Then allow me to break your lover in front of your eyes! What will you do, boy without magick--failure to his family, his father?"
The roar that came out of Buck's mouth nearly knocked Rage (and Spike) back down to the mat. In any case, it revived with referee, who blinked back into consciousness.
Spike, delirious with pain and confused, suddenly felt a surge of energy. "Buck...?
Green and golden light blossomed from beneath Buck's boots. The pupils of his eyes flashed a strange symbol, vaguely representing the crudely drawn head of a beast.
A glyph.
Buck Tamberly charged forward, summoning all that he remembered from his wrestling lesson, craning his head and turning into a missile. His father had taught him how to 'spear' someone, once, but had forbidden Buck from using the technique.
It's a dirty move. A heel tactic. You could cause serious damage, boy.
As Buck recalled these words, a poisonous grin cut across his handsome face. Good.
And as Buck prepped his head for the blow, a luminous, phantasm of a shape appeared in the air, wrapping itself around Buck Tamberly, becoming one with him. It looked as if Buck had sprouted ephemeral horns, sharp, and aimed for Rage's chest.
The audience couldn't quite make out what they were seeing. The glowing form of a stag's head, jagged horns and all, materialized in the space around Buck's hand, colliding with Rage and knocking him to the ground.
The gash across Rage's body was deep and bloody. Red spray rained down on the canvas, as Spike's limp body fell to the mat. Rage, kneeling in a pool of his own blood, looked down at the wound his chest. His flamed died.
It was the first time anybody had ever heard Vahni Rage cry out in pain and fear before.
Thankfully, the soma did its work, sealing up Rage's wounds in rapid time. Spike, still alive (but hardly able to breathe) managed to stand up, just as the ref came around and did the same. Hair matted with sweat and blood, Spike looked over at Buck, clutching his head in pain and horror.
"What's...Buck?"
"GAHHH!" Buck screamed, the ephemeral stag form blinking in and out of reality around his body, kicking up on its hind quarters and rearing up its head in a mad frenzy.
Spike's world was reduced to color, sound, and instinct. He wasn't even quite aware as he began to climb the ropes, ignoring Buck, ignoring Colt running towards them, ignoring all the security guard scrambling to enter the ring. Spike looked down at Rage, laying flat in his blood, breathing raggedly. Spike had done most of the work. Buck would not steal this moment from him. All Spike cared about was ending this.
With the last of his reserves, Spike's overdrive completed its course. He was like a living star, flying through the air with his burning Anchors Aweigh moonsault. He landed on Rage, right across his (already vulnerable) chest.
The torches around the ring blossomed bright white, more intense than the sun. The runes in the ring met the glow. Everything was blinding light and shadow. The audience screamed out in horror.
And when eyes adjusted, and the smoke cleared, Spike was sprawled across Rage's chest. The ref, unsure, counted, hands falling with finality to the canvas.
"One. Two. Three. Ring the bell!"
Spike slunk off Rage.
Just as he did, the ref found himself thrown aside by a rampaging Buck. He looked up in horror as the terrifying man placed a boot across his neck.
"Should have counted out sooner," Buck said, coldly, barely audible. He cocked his head to the side. Spike, barely able to keep his eyes open, saw another ghostly form flash across Buck's face. A wolf's head. Jaw's bared.
"I don't think I like you very much," Buck said, his teeth suddenly long and sharp. "Maybe I'll just have to break your throat."
Behind the screen, Grigorivich stood up, horrified. His cane dropped. "What is this?"
"Digimon Season 1, Episode 34."
Blinded with anger, and jaw clenched, Semyon Grigorivich turned slowly around towards the intruder. Where were the guards flanking his private stall? How had they not seen him enter.
Jackal stood, arms tucked inside his golden robe, staring down haughtily at the gaunt man. "Okay, so there's like seven Digidestined, right? But then it's suddenly revealed that Kari, Tai's sister, who has been a character since the very beginning, is shown to be a Digidestined too! Her Digivice activates, Gatomon Digivolves into Angewoman--talk about a serve, right?--and the audience is gagged."
As Semyon looked on, stupefied, Jackal withdrew an ornate, glass bottle from within the folds of his robe and showed it to him. The attractive vessel was covered in fine, golden filigree, recalling a genie's bottle from out of a fairy tale. It was, of course, the last Chalice, of Spirit.
Semyon gritted his teeth. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Jackal huffed. "This timeline has such bad taste in anime. No surprise there. But yeah, Greggy, I foresaw all of this coming to pass. Face it. Your time is up. Now, tell me what you wanted with these Chalices and maybe I'll decide to spare you. But I dunno. I'm bored..." Jackal stepped forward. His tone, deep and resonate, became icy. "Killing you might be a lot more fun."
But Grigorivich was not the least bit intimidate. On the contrary, he laughed. "Foreseen it, eh?" he said, as he raised his cane. "And yet you are compelled to ask what it is that I intend to do with the artefact you hold in your hand. Perhaps because I have seen to it that my intent be hidden, by even the most stalwart oracle or seer..."
The empty sockets in the ornamental skull atop Grigorivich's cane flashed bright red.
Jackal took a step back. Paused. And laughed. "Oh, now that makes things a lot more interesting. The Eye of Set."
"Yes, I believe you have its twin. The Eye of Osiris. One of the few artefacts missing from the Black Library, lost to time. One to see all possible futures, one to conceal them. A pair once used in tandem by the long-dead Time Magi of the Old Kingdoms."
"Hmm." Jackal said. "Well. Thanks for proving my theory. I knew there was a reason I couldn't get a read on you. I guess I'll have to recalibrate my agenda a little. Maybe do something crazy! Maybe even desperate! Something that will confuse the HELL out of you. You know...like this?"
In one swift motion, Jackal removed their golden mask.
Semyon looked at them, blankly, up and down. A thin smile crossed their lips. "Hahaha! It should have been obvious."
Back in the ring, Spike reached out to Buck, hands trembling. He could feel his pain. His fear. He could also feel that Buck was two seconds from snapping the neck of this ref.
Then, the guardsmen jumped through. Four men in total, all broad chested and muscular. They pounced on Buck.
Colt's son gave them a passing, indifferent glance, slowly removing his foot from the ref's neck. The ref breathed.
"Oh? You want to play too?"
The first guardsman to touch Buck went flying. The second? Shoulder gored right through by the horns of the phantom stag. Buck yawned as he wrapped his arms around the third guard, pulling him into one of the most brutal snapmares Spike had ever seen, the phantom form overlaying his body transforming into that of a grizzly bear.
CRACK.
The guard landed with a limp, head to the side. Spike, horrified, could still feel the pulse of life from him--the only thing telling him he wasn't dead.
"...Buck." All animals. Of course. Buck always joked about going 'beast mode'. Guess this was a lot more literal than either of them could imagine.
"Nobody is going to hurt you, Spike," the enraged, yet calmly speaking Buck said. "Nobody besides me, that is."
The fourth guardsmen of the temple thought he could sneak up behind Buck and knock him out in a sleeper choke.
He was wrong.
Buck grabbed the man and threw him over his shoulder, slamming him into the mat. He planted his boot on his neck. "That was a mistake." Buck smiled, sweetly, even as the man below him struggled to breathe.
Spike couldn't move to help the man. He could barely speak.
"That's enough, son. Good job. I'm proud of you."
Buck looked up. "Hm?" Then, with a quick convulsion, he fell to the mat, right next to Rage and Spike, all lined up in a row.
Colt massaged the hand he used to put his own son out. He looked upon the three men at his feet, his expression inscrutable. Head lowered, nobody in the audience could see the tears welling up inside the Cowboy King's eyes.
As the medical team rushed to the ring, all threats neutralized, Vahni Rage's cousin, a kind-eyed, young man in a white medical jacket, fell to his side.
"Rajeet..." Rage said, struggling to speak.
"Don't worry, you're going to be fine." The handsome man placed his hands on his cousins chest.
Relief flowed into Rage. But he didn't care about the pain. Vengeance was on his mind.
And not for Spike.
"I need you..." Rage began breathing ragged. "I need you to go back stage and find the vial of soma that Spike drank. Whatever you do. I need you...to get it and have Amrita send it to the labs for analysis."
Rajeet stared down at his cousin. He assumed he might be delirious. Then again, he never know his cousin to be anything other than lucid, even at the worst of times.
"Yes, sir."
Rage smiled. "Thank you, Rajeet." He shut his eyes. "One...hell of a match, eh?"
Then, Rage joined his opponents, on either side of him, in sweet slumber.
To Be Continued
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