"HOLY SH***"
Death was a lot noisier than Spike expected. He wanted to sleep. His eyes fluttered open, senses coming back online. It was hard to keep his eyes open. Sleep. Sleep was good.
"Daemian, please do not swear. You know it makes me uncomforta--HOLY SH**"
Where Spike had just been had been nothing but calm. A tranquillity still embraced him, but now everything suddenly felt more real. His body ached. His head throbbed. His vision blurred. Who were these familiar voices? What did they want? Why had they been calling his name?
"I'll get the nurse! Spike, bicha, I swear if you don't wake up I will break both your arms."
Iggy? Iggy wants to break my arm? They always want to break my arm. So...rude...
Spike's eyes fluttered open unto halogen light. For a moment, he thought he might actually be in Heaven. Then, he saw Deadboy's face--a rare mix of concern and surprise.
Spike groaned. "I'm in Hell. I guess that tracks..."
Daemian glared. "That's what you say to the bloke who BROUGHT YOU BACK FROM THE DEAD, C***?"
This was real. Spike wondered if this was what it was like to be born--to come back into existence. Everything was so strange, even though it should be familiar. Deadboy just stared at him. So odd to see him look concerned.
"Why...the hell is your hair like that?" Spike said slowly.
Gobsmacked, Deadboy--wearing a cut-off jean jacket, ran his fingers through his dark mullet, streak with purple. "You've been asleep for a bloody week and the first thing you want to do is make fun of my haircut?" Daemian's lip quivered slightly, before he threw his arms around Spike's neck. "You little idiot."
Spike turned his weary head, ready to pass out again. He was in a hospital bed. IV drip in his arms. EKG. He just knew he looked like shit. "A...week?" he said, as his eyes scanned a bedside table stacked high with get-well-cards and flowers. He recognized some of the handwriting. He certainly recognized Buck's art (damn, great pic of me holding the title belt). Spike looked toward Kengo, dressed (rather fetchingly) in a suit and tie. The lanyard around his neck confused Spike, but he was in no position to demand elaboration.
"The spirits are good," Kengo whispered under his breath. "Roomie. We thought..." His eyes filled with tears. "We brought you back from the..." Kengo shook his head. Daemian and I."
Spike groaned. His head hurt. He felt like someone had opened him up and stuffed him with cotton. Pinned on the wall next to him was a simply designed, woven dreamcatcher.
"Robbie made that for you," Daemian said, cracking open a can of coke and sitting in the chair next to Spike. "Said he wanted you to have good dreams. Did it work?"
Spike remembered everything, though he could not place when it had happened--his meeting his dad (if that were real), and seeing Salim in the 'metaphor thing' that had taken the shape of John Henry's gym. "I think so. I...I saw my dad."
Daemian blinked. "Oath?"
Spike nodded. "Oath."
"Oh. Then you must have really died." Daemiain shrugged, put his can down, and belched loudly. He rested his Doc Martin's on Spike's bed. "Kengo and I used our glyphs to try and bring your soul back while the docs did their thing."
"There is no medical explanation for what happened to you," Kengo said. placing a cold, wet towel on Spike's forehead. "You absorbed a lot of energy. It completely short circuited your nervous system. You were clinically dead for quite some time. It is a miracle you stabilized."
Spike tried not to pass out, hearing this information alone. "A week, you said?" He thought about it. "Does that mean...?"
"Ha!" Daemian laughed. "Yeah. Bedpan. Don't worry--wasn't Ken and me changin' it."
He wasn't even embarrassed about that. In fact, Spike wanted to laugh, but his chest hurt. His life hurt.
"We're in New York City," Kengo told Spike. "St. Milia Hospital in Manhattan. It is a very good one. They treat a lot of injuries like yours here, so I thought..."
"I thought it felt a lot like home," Spike said, smiling. "Still...something feels...off..."
He tried to crane his neck, but Kengo gently encouraged him to stay still. Though Spike didn't have enough energy to process what was going on, there were tell-tale signs of something being...off, that bothered him. There was black box on the wall, with bright red numbers. It took Spike several seconds to realize it was some sort of time display.
"What the hell is that thing?" Spike said, nodding to the object.
Kengo looked over his shoulder. "Oh? It is a clock."
"THAT'S a clock?"
Daemian and Kengo's eyes met. "Oh no, he doesn't realize..."
But before Spike could utter the obvious 'realize WHAT?' the sound of oncoming footsteps, and a whole team of medical staff, drew his eyes towards the door.
Nurses and doctors flocked to Spike's bedside, muttering shocked medical phraseology that Spike couldn't even begin to understand. Besides, he was too distracted by the tall, muscular figure in the tight shirt and light-pink blazer. Their crossly cropped hair, almost a mohawk, threw Spike completely off.
"Ig...Iggy?"
Spike's malicious mentor smiled. "Bom dia, sleepy head." Iggy posed, letting free a small shower of sprakles. "What do you think of the new do?"
"You got new hair too?" Spike asked, confused. "Why does everyone have new hair? Did we all treat ourselves to the salon after savin' the world, or what?"
"Ah, yeah...about that." Iggy nodded to the doctors. "Let's...get you back on your feet first before we blow your mind."
Spike felt dizzy. "My mind's already been blown for one lifetime, friend."
Spike's fatigue soon caught up with him (as did the medications) and he found himself in a welcome, dreamless sleep before long. By morning, however, he felt full of vim and vigor. The doctors told him they'd need to monitor him throughout the day. Spike had no choice but to agree.
"I left the boss a message on the ol' answering machine," Daemian said, coming back into the room.
"That 'what'?" Spike shook his head. "A machine that answers you?"
The doctors had briefly asked all guests to leave while they checked Spike's vitals. They were all shocked to find him, suddenly, the picture of health. The punk (with the mullet) nodded to Spike. "You...don't know what an answering machine is?"
"Duh?"
Daemian glared. "Want me to send you back to the underworld again, s***c***? Ugh. But that's right--we didn't have widely available answering machines in the sixties, yeah?"
Spike couldn't follow. His head still hurt. As he tried to make sense, Kengo sprung back into the room, red faced and panting.
"It's...it's Sandra Iron."
Spike forced himself up, wincing, trying to stabilize himself. He wasn't dizzy. Good. "Whaddya' mean? Did she get hurt too? She wasn't even there! Is Mr. Iron okay? Why aren't you answering me!?"
"OY! Because you're talkin' a kilometre-a-minute, mate!" Daemian spat. "One thing at a time, or do you want your pretty head to nearly explode again? Didn't think so."
"She gave birth!" Kengo said, catching his breath at last. "A healthy baby boy!"
Spike's face lit up like the sun. "Whaaaaa!? World champion and a new dad? Mr. Iron must feel on top of the world." As he should. Goddess knows coach deserved it. "When do we get to see the baby?"
Kengo walked over and gently pressed his massive hand on Spike's forehead, lowering back to the pillow. "When this baby is cleared to get on his feet." He poured Spike a glass of water. "Minoru sends his regards too. He said he knew you'd come back, that you were too much of a..." Kengo blushed. "Expletive expletive to die. In my system of belief, when someone recovers from a grave illness around the same time as a new birth in their community, it is believed the two souls become interlinked."
The sudden realization, that he'd nearly died, made Spike's head swim. "Damn. Huh. Waitaminute...does that mean...Mr. Iron appointed me the kid's Goddess Father?"
"Nah," Daemian laughed. "He said that'd be Colt. The president is back in San Antonio, dealing with..." Daemian shrugged. "Everything. Did you know we had to all get interviewed and debriefed by the bloody CIA? Aradia's been called into the UN and everything. Weirdly enough though, what happened at the world championships has cooled the heels of both Russia and the US. They're still pointin' nukes at each other, but they took what happened in Kitezh as a warning. I'm sure Lily is chuffed to know he org is gonna get heaps of funding now..."
Spike still had a million questions. Kengo tried his best to answer. Kengo was a resident now, at this hospital. When the glyph had run amok, Deadboy used his dark magick to teleport the rest of the spellbreakers to safety. But when they'd come out the other side of the dark corridor, the New York City they'd appeared in was...well...
"Changed," Kengo explained. "Uh...you see..."
Spike's heart skipped a beat. "How long have I really been asleep, Kuma?"
Kengo smiled, nervously. "A week."
"And you became a resident of a New York City hospital WITHIN A WEEK? I mean, I knew you were smart, but--"
"It is...complicated. We still don't understand it. But...it seems Salim did something to...well...I...can't..." Kengo was tongued tied.
Spike, glad to be walking around, tugged on his hospital gown. "Never mind, you'll either give me or yourself a panic attack. Salim mentioned to me that he had to something to...the timeline?" Spike scratched his head.
Kengo nervously handed Spike a pile of clothing. "We couldn't find your old clothing when we escaped Kitezh. Iggy and Daemian seemed to think you'd appreciate these?"
Spike frowned as he picked up the navy blue top. "Kengo. This shirt is missing its bottom." Spike tossed off the hospital gown and looked at himself in the mirror, giving himself a flirty wink and 'finger gun'. "Still got the bod, at least. And...THE HAIR!?"
Spike's eyes bugged out of his head. His hair was no longer shortly cropped, Navy style, but long and luscious and full (just like it had been, briefly, in his showdown with Salim). He looked more like the old Iggy Astro! Spike couldn't help but run his fingers through it.
"Yesss. YES. LOOK AT ME. Kengo! Look how pretty I am." He tossed his hair back and forth, like a shampoo model. "What's my secret? Well, I'll never tell. Oh yes. YESSSS."
Growing rapidly excited with his new 'look' (not even questioning how his hair had grown in the span of a week) Spike tugged his new shirt over his body. His abs were completely visible.
"It's called a...crop...top?" Kengo explained. "Apparently they are quite popular with men these days."
These days? Spike put on the short shorts and admired himself in the mirror. "This is...the singular best piece of clothing that's ever been invented. Kinda' weird though. Don't ya think people will look at me funny wearing something like this?"
Iggy waltzed into the room and whistled at his mentee. "Lookin' good and slutty."
Spike frowned. "I dunno, Igs. Even I don't think is appropriate to wear to see a baby."
"Here," Daemian said, tossing him his jean jacket. "Just don't get baby vomit on it."
---
"OH HE'S THE MOST PRECIOUS THING!"
John and Sandra's kid looked like a little peanut. He slept against his mother's chest. Sandra, looking very glamorous for a woman who'd just given birth to her first kid, smiled down at him.
"He was pretty easy," Sandra said. "My momma always said that an easy labor meant rearing an easy kid."
"Bet you were a difficult birth," Mr. Iron said, winking at his wife.
"John Henry, you're lucky I'm in this bed!" She laughed. "Do you want to hold him?" She offered Spike.
"What!?" Spike balked. "No. I'm...what if I drop him?"
"He's an Iron," John said, gently taking his son (nearly lost in his father's arms) and placing him in Spike's hands. "He'd probably just bounce."
Spike swallowed. He looked down at the sleeping baby. He decided then that he'd gladly throw himself in front of a runaway glyph again for this kid. "What's his name?" Come on, you named him Spike, right.
"We named him Spike," Sandra said.
"REALLY!?"
"No!" the woman laughed. "But I just wanted to see your face. It was worth it."
"Aurelio," Mr. Iron said. "A name as good as gold."
"My father was Cornelio," Sandra explained. "And 'Au' is the periodic symbol for gold. I think he'll probably just end up being called 'Lio' though. I don't want him to get beat up on the playground."
"If he's our kid," John said, "he'll be the one doing the beating up."
"Oh, John! We don't even know if he'll have a glyph yet." Sandra took back her kid. "And it won't matter. It's a new world, now. He's going to be just fine."
Spike was inclined to agree. For the first time in awhile, he felt hopeful and calm.
While Sandra tended to Aurelio, Mr. Iron took Spike on a walk down the hospital corridor. More and more, Spike picked up on the strange technology about the place--vending machines with glass windows and electronic buttons; windowed boxes with green, electronic text that nurses and doctors communicated with via some sort of typewriter board, signs telling people not to smoke.
"Notice anything...interesting?" Mr. Iron said, slyly.
"This hospital is state of the art," Spike marvelled. "I've never seen machines like these before."
"We've had a week to get used to it. It's odd. You look at something like a computer, are confused for a moment or two, and then it's like you suddenly remember everything about it. I reckon that snake Salim had some hand in it."
Spike bit his lip. "Yeah. He said had to do something to fix the mess he made. Also, what's a computer?"
"Fine mess indeed. I'd crack his skull again if I could...but he's seemed to have dropped off the face of the Earth. International wanted man, they say."
"How's it feel to be champion?"
"Meh." Mr. Iron, dressed in a fine, charcoal suit (the cut and tie also very 'modern') smiled at his young apprentice. "Being World Champ is all well and good, but it's just a title. Sure, it's nice to be recognized but...I'm much more concerned about the state of the world."
Spike and Mr. Iron stopped at the lobby lounge. A nurse slept on the couch. A doctor handed a different nurse some coffee in a plastic cup. It was strangely quiet. The music over the loudspeakers had unusual instrumentation that Spike had never heard before--a sort of tinny, electronic sound. He liked it.
"The music is different too," Mr. Iron said, absently.
"Salim told me that you didn't make a wish," Spike said.
"No."
"Why, coach?"
Mr. Iron sighed and leaned against the corridor wall. "I really should have. It just didn't feel right. There's no shortcuts in life, blondie. Certainly not when it comes to changing the world. I just...I hope I made the right choice."
"Coach, it's you--of course you did, big guy. I'd trust you with the world. And I guess...we all kinda' did."
Mr. Iron gave him a wan, sad smile. "I keep forgetting. And funny that, nobody will know. But I guess that's being selfless, eh? I've managed to brush up on history. Since the world suddenly changed over night. History books say we've come a long way, people like you and I. I suspect though, we haven't come long enough. We still have a tough fight on our hands. That's the thing about being a face, Spike. There's always a new heel to tangle with--always another battle."
Sobering words. Spike wasn't sure he was ready to hear them so soon, after all that had happened.
"We'll beat them," he said, confidently.
---
Manhattan's towers were as tall as ever...and even taller than Spike had remembered. New York had become an arcology of glittering spires illuminated by massive, swinging spotlights. Gone were the aesthetics of brass and chrome--the art deco skyscrapers had since been dwarfed by pyramidal apartment blocks numbering the thousands. Old Manhattan was dead.
Neon reigned supreme.
New wave spilled forth, cold and distant, from out of the goth's boombox as the girl with the black eyeliner gave dumbfounded Spike a confused look. Across the street, a woman in a spandex leotard, with a teased-out, hair-sprayed mane, hailed a taxi cab that appeared to be hovering several inches off the ground. The women around Spike dressed in business suits with padded shoulders. Glowing signs of neon fury rose around Spike, dazzled by this strange Manhattan of the modern.
His eyes followed the chyron wrapping around the news tower in front of him. April 12th. 1985.
Spike fell backwards, caught at the last second by Iggy Astro, chewing a piece of gun. "Welcome to the future, Spike."
"I...need to sit down," Spike said, taking a seat at the hospital bench. In front of him, the poster on the bus stop advertised a band of psychedelic, spandex-clad rock stars. Iggy recognized the one in the front. Vanity Paradise and Iggy Astro--Live!
Revelling in his bewilderment, Iggy wrapped their arm around Spike and held them close. "The future has been kind to the Cosmic Crusher! Imagine that. I step out of the nineteen-sixties into 1985 and suddenly I'm more famous for my music than my spellbreaking." He beamed. Hearts of solid light floated up from their head. "I always thought my sound was much too ahead of its time. Turns out, it's right at home here the eighties."
Spike was on the verge of puking. "But...HOW ARE WE NOT LIKE...FORTY YEARS OLD!?"
Then Spike remembered. 'Cut-and-paste job', Salim had said.
Iggy shrugged. "Well, after what we saw in Kitezh, I don't really question much any more. It is weird though. Only the GSA and the Aradia task force seem to remember that last week we were still years away from putting a man on the moon. Now..." Iggy shrugged.
Spike's jaw dropped. "WE PUT A MAN ON THE MOON?"
Nonplussed, Iggy pointed to the road. "Hover cars, Spike. Please keep up. Oh yeah, it also looks like spellbreaking has gotten pretty popular. Look." Iggy nodded to one of the many electronic signs hanging off the side of the news tower across the way.
Spike squinted. Then, his heart dropped. "YOU GOTTA BE FRIGGIN' KIDDIN' ME!"
Full of sound and fury and light, the TV advertisement for Sunday Night Spellbreaking showcased a hole slew of spellbreakers Spike had never crossed paths before--all of them more colorful, dazzling, and RIPPED than Spike had ever seen. Mr. Iron shirtless, flexed for the camera, grinning, with his world champ belt slung over his shoulders.
Spike smiled. "He's still champ. Great."
Then, his smile faded. Spike never liked seeing himself on TV (a surprise to everyone, considering his ego). Here he was, decked out in navy and gold gear, posing on top of the turnbuckle. Spike had never seen himself look so...confident before.
Spike on TV raised the mic to his lips. "That's right--get a look at all this perfection." Spike gestured to his enviable, muscular body.
"Wow, that's a lot of baby oil I've got on." On the street, Spike noted his double's new gear. Blue velvet, trimmed white, like the cushioning of a crown. Royal. Gone, however, was the anchor--replaced instead with the golden emblem of a lion rearing up for attack.
Spike couldn't believe it. "That's...me, right, Igs? Not Cian in disguise or anything weird, right?"
Iggy flicked Spike's nose. "Shh. Yes. Watch."
Spike on TV tossed back his mane and allowed his loyal subjects to finish their cheers. "Yes. You all see it. I'm shinin' like the sun. And that mouthy hick who claims he's gonna dethrone me is in for a shock to the system when I kick his teeth in next week!"
The crowd popped.
"WOAH! I sound like a heel!" Spike squeaked.
"You're welcome," Iggy answered.
"Huh. So...I'm still in a hot rivalry with Vahni?"
Iggy, grinning with mischief, turned away. "You'll see..."
Spike on TV grabbed the camera and brought it closer to his face. "You hear that, sports fans? Next Sunday...you're gonna watch a young lion take down a buck. Wild Buck, that is. You say you aren't your daddy's boy, Buck Tamberly? Damn right. By the time I'm done with you, you'll be calling ME daddy." Spike dropped the mic. The crowd went berserk.
On the bench, Spike's face nearly fell off into the concrete. "Whaaaaaaaaaaaaa????"
Before Iggy could even butt in with something snarky or clever, the two spellbreakers heard a gasp from their right. A young teen, dressed in a basketball jersey, with gelled-up hair, pointed at them. "YO! Check it out! It's the Young Lion!"
Spike cocked his head to the side. "Igs, is that youth talkin' to us?"
Nearby, a girl with teased out, blonder hair squeaked and ran towards them, her beaded necklaces dangling in the wind. Others too, young and old, closed in.
Spike jumped back into the bench. "What's goin' on!?" He was already freaked out enough as is. These people, with big hair, and strange, colorful outfits, swarmed him.
"Autograph! Please!"
"Spike, my son loves you!"
"Young Lion, put me in a lion clutch, please!"
Spike blinked, trying his best to recompose himself. He cleared his throat, glanced briefly at his smug mug on the TV, and tried his best to emulate this spellbreaker he apparently was in this timeline. "Well...of course. Only my most loyal subjects could recognize me in the wild. Obviously you aren't peasants."
Spike had missed this. Whatever Salim had done to the time line, he'd thrown them a bone. But what had happened to Spike's 'Sailorboy' moniker? Everything on the TV set showed a world where spellbreaking was bigger, bolder, brighter. Was this perhaps the 'Golden Age' of spellbreaking that Colt had long-hope was somewhere on the horizon?
And what of Buck? Wild Buck? Where was he now?
Spike did his best to keep up his kayfabe (he enjoyed being ab it of a cocky dick) signing autographs and kissing cheeks. Iggy took the role of makeshift manager, shooing away the riff raff (and clearly indulging in the role). Soon, though, the crowd became overwhelming. Spike stood on the bench and called for order.
Just as he did, a bright flash threw the sidewalk meet-and-greet into a tizzy. Spike's 'loyal subjects' drew back from the blazing circle of fire that had sprouted at Spike and Iggy's feet. Spike looked to Iggy. "Rage?"
The ring of fire widened, pushing away the manic audience. It divided in front of Spike, forming a corridor for him to follow. With no other choice, Spike walked forward, craning his head over his shoulder and watching Iggy, lounging on the bench, wave him on.
A white limousine, trimmed in gold, zoomed down the road towards Spike. As it did, the so-called 'Young Lion' looked up across the street, noticing two familiar faces.
Seemed time hadn't caught up with Cian yet. He wore a tight ringer tee (green, of course), looking every bit like the high school jock. Next to him, face barely concealed by a black cowboy hat...
"Buck!?"
The handsome Buck tipped up his hat, looking at Spike with an intense expression. He looked tougher, now (maybe it was his lack of glasses ). Like a more cleaned up, yet intimidating, version of his father.
He smiled.
Spike smiled back.
The white limo pulled up alongside Spike, just as the flames (and crowd) died down. The door opened upward, on its hinges. Spike looked inside the lit interior.
Arms stretched across upholstered seats, a martini sitting on a table in front of him, the man in the suit adjusted his collar. Spike's first thought was that he was looking at Salim.
But he'd know Vahni Rage's glamorous hair and handsome face anywhere. The well-suited heel's smirk could still cut deeply into Spike's heart. He reached down towards the table, picked something up, and threw it outside the limo.
A gold collar landed at Spike's feet. He looked down at it, and then at the handsome rogue waiting for him in the limo.
Rage shrugged. Your choice.
Mischief on his mind (and a whole host of more lascivious ides) Spike bent down and picked up the collar. He placed it across his neck and latched it, flicking the little name-tag that read "SPIKE".
He stepped into the car, finding the door automatically shut behind him. Without fear, Spike took a seat next to Vahni Rage, who looked down at him with a hunger--and a softness--in his eyes.
This time, Spike grabbed Rage's neck first, pulling him and kissing him passionately. Thank goodness the limo's partition was up. Spike and Rage would need their privacy.
As the limo pulled away, Cian and Spike, left on a sidewalk strewn with litter and discarded newspaper, watched their friend vanish into the skyways of modern Manhattan.
Buck's fists tightened. Cian looked at him with empathy. "Don't worry, boyo. He always does that."
Buck's shoulders raised, and then fell. He tipped his head. "I know," he said. "That's Spike. Just makes things more interesting now."
Cian turned his head towards his friend, now a spellbreaker--and a deadly one--in his own right. "What do you mean?"
Buck's smile flashed just as brightly as his eyes lit up, wicked green. "You think you're king of the jungle, Spike? The hunt is on. And you will be mine..."
Just One More Thing...
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