A spooky, sexy collaboration with GuavaJagular (@guavajagular.bsky.social). Daemian wants to impress Colt by throwing the creepiest, scariest, goriest wrestling night ever seen...with Spike's encouragement, of course. Still, the first rule of Halloween is to expect the unexpected...and things may not go according to Daemian's sinister plans.
Certainly not if Spike's old flame, and current badboy heel crush, has anything to say about it!
Panels will update once a day up until the complete release finishing on October 31st, Daemian's birthday (and Halloween too, I guess).
Standing in the 'home' arena of the GSA (a glorified warehouse with posters of the fed's all-stars strung up on the walls) Deadboy Daemian looked upon the familiar ring and scowled. Granted, it was an affectionate scowl.
The lean, muscle bound punk scratched his armpits and yawned. "Bloody hell, I have up world domination for this?" Still, he caught himself smiling. "Can't wait to break my old mate's skulls again." Leas of all, Tiger. Then again, if I knock him flat, I won't be able to pash him after the match. Hmmm. Okay, D, note to self; figure out to destroy lover without....destroying lover.
Dressed in a black, shredded cut-off, and wearing and purple short-shorts with the stanza "Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here' on the butt, Daemian went about setting up for the show. He was fully aware that this rigorous 'set up' work was partial punishment from Colt, a way to humble him and prove Daemian was worthy of re-joining the fed. The joke was on the boss, though--Daemian liked working solo. Didn't have to bark orders at some wet-behind-the-ears rookie who didn't know a ring apron from a bib, or get chewed out for touching someone's gear the wrong way. Between set up, Daemian could even help himself to a nice coldie from the communal fridge. Time for a break.
The demon summoner slammed the switch on the boom box, quietly head banging to his sick, Aussie punk music.
As Demonic D chugged down looked upon the ring with thoughtful reminiscence. The last time he'd been here, White Tiger had thrashed him for the championship belt. Now, they were dating. How strange, the ebb and flow of fate.
"Bloody annoying too," Daemian snarled, punctuating his annoyance with a loud belch. He crushed his empty can against his head and chucked it towards the bin (he missed). With all that done, the punk with the shredded abs perched on the side of the entrance arch platform, and pretending as if he was about to suicide drop some unfortunate opponent below him. It had been awhile since he'd slaked his blood lust. But, in the few months since going 'reformed', Deadboy had learned to focus on priorities. Namely, the spooky, silk-lined coffin sitting on top of the trap door platform at the bottom of the ring.
He already knew who'd be going inside it...
"Earth to Deadboy," Colt said, coming around the side of the stage with an extension chord. The muscular, long-haired cowboy, wearing a white undershirt and jeans, looked down at the frayed chord with a frown, and tossed it away. "That's the second one today. Must be nerves."
Daemian grimaced at his manager. "Wanna practice again?" Bludger's lucky my skull is indestructible...and not much brain to begin with neither. All those piledrivers would turn a nuclear scientist into...well...Spike.
Before Colt could answer, Bruce--always in his black business suit and red tie--entered from the righthand stage, clipboard in hand. "You blokes are really gonna put on a fake fight tonight?" His jovial tone didn't match his fake derision. "Colt, this is a spellbreaking match, not a circus, mate!"
"Look at this c***," Deadboy said, nodding to his old co-worker. "Thinks he can come in and take Buck's job. How ya doin', Bazza?"
Colt rolled his eyes at the unruly Australians. "Look, y'all. I don't wanna turn into an old geezer..."
Too late, Deadboy thought.
"...and those guys who do pro sometimes have the right idea staging it. Scripted and staged allows us to keep our guys and gals in top condition for the championships. Plus, these marks don't know the difference anyway, half the time!"
Bruce was one of those businessmen who always hid his opinions behind a smile. Thankfully, his and Colt's relationship had been amicable these last few weeks--especially in the wake of Colt taking back the company from his erstwhile son. Daemian, truthfully, felt bad about what had happened. He liked Buck. The kid was a straight-shooter, and had a bit of bite to him. A bona fide talent, and never a tall poppy about it either. When Daemian had gone good, Buck was the first person to welcome him back open arms.
Now the kid's gone and got himself a bloody glyph too. What a legend.
Also, Daemian was fully aware how much of a blowhard Colt could be when he wasn't in a good mood. Even though Daemian was content to throw back beers and break the empty bottles over people's heads for fun, he was quite perceptive too. Colt had been hitting the liquor and hitting the boys even harder in the wake of Buck's absence. Though he kept up his magnanimous façade of cowboy rowdiness, Daemian (as well as other emotional sleuths like El Amante) had picked up the vibrations from Colt's wounded heart.
Bruce put the clipboard down on top of one of the amps, set to pump out Colt's country rock anthem, and Deadboy's melodic metal entrance music, later tonight. He scratched his head with his pinky--a gesture Daemian had seen him do back in Sydney...usually before breaking bad news.
"And...what happens when it gets out that you're staging your matches?" Bruce asked solemnly.
Handsome Colt waved it off. "Does that stop people from going to see pro wrestling fights? You're damned stupid if you think those bereft boys don't have a magick of their own. They're performers, born and bred. Hell, I always told Buck that if he ever wanted to get into..." He stopped, swallowed, and looked away. "Anyway"
Deadboy and Colt met eyes, and exchanged a wordless acknowledgment, before turning back to the conversation. "Where is old mate, anyway?" Daemian asked his boss.
Behind them, a small lightbulb on the stage perimeter burst. "Grrr." Colt glared at the damage. "He's with Varla and John Henry in New Orleans. Probably suckin' down hurricanes and having a grand ol' time without PUBLIC OUTLAW NUMBER ONE." Colt's forehead crackled with little needles of electricity, teasing out his hair. He shook his head and flattered his blonde mane, all at once deeply embarrassed with himself.
Bruce and Daemian let the Texan have his tantrum. "Mr. Iron's big comeback is an unexpected but welcome surprise," Bruce said, which was something everyone in the room could agree with. "Could be a contender to watch at the championships."
That talked Colt down from his ledge. Truth be told, Colt had tremendous pride in his dear friend and tag team partner. "Shucks, would be a long time comin' too. Fact of the matter is, John was the best there was." Colt twisted his head side to side, to make sure nobody else was present, before he lowered his voice. "Maybe even better than me. But back then, the feds were all crooked and exploitative as all hell. John's only flaw was being born in a time where your skin color could cost you an opportunity. Truth be told, I don't think we've come much further since."
"Didn't think you were much of a civil rights activist," Bruce laughed, uncomfortably. Deadboy glared at him for that.
"My boy's bi," Colt laughed. "And most of my boys are a bit...well...fruity. Hell, who hasn't had a romp in the hay with a cute, doe-eyed, muscle boy with a big..." Colt looked around to see Deadboy and Bruce turning several shades. "Er, anyways, you can't spend your life clinging to the old ways. My old man did that and caused me all kinds of grief."
"Peas in a pod, you are," Bruce huffed. He stuck his thumb at Daemian. "Back home, this one was always harping on about treaties and stuff."
"I don't like the government telling people what to do," Daemin sniffed. "Especially the people who lived on the land first, before the Albans dumped heaps of dark magi on the arse end of the world".
Daemian twisted his mouth to the side. It was hard to hate Colt. He generally tried to make space for people. Hell, he'd picked a grub like him to fight in his fed. That counted for something.
"Anyway," Bruce began, checking over one of Daemian's ring props, a cheese grater, "where is our 'Million-Dollar Manager', Mr. Salim?"
"Speaking of the ends of the Earth, he dropped off the damn face of the planet," Colt said. "Nobody can contact him. And considering he's the reigning world champ, that's a bit of concern, isn't it? Oh well, show must go on."
Colt stood up. Daemian fully realized this man could break him in half, if he wanted to (not that such a thing would ruin him) and was suddenly very excited to go toe-to-toe with the fed president. Spike and Rage was a hard act to follow, but Colt and Deadboy promised some unexpectedly delightful carnage. They'd give those marks a show alright.
Colt stretched out his meaty arms, and yawned. "Deadboy--I'm ready to rehearse in five." He thumbed towards the ring. "Let me confirm medical for tonight just in case I snap your arm off."
Daemian pointed to his 'surgical stitching tattoo' on his biceps. "No wockas, mate. I've beaten guys with my own arm before just fine."
Colt did the finger guns at him. "Now there's the attitude I'm looking for." Minding Bruce, Colt approached Deadboy and put a hand on his shoulder.
Deadboy stared at it as if Colt had just wiped his nose and smeared it on his shoulder. "Er...?"
"Was just gonna say. It's good to have you back around the corral, spooky stud. I know you love this sport just as much as I do, and...you just let me know what you need. Don't need to get mushy about it." He winked.
Deadboy's first instinct was to throw back something snarky and rude. He swallowed his tongue. "Right...boss. It's bloody good to be back."
Colt exited, whistling one of his country tunes. "I'll be back in two shakes."
Deadboy took a deep breath. Alright. So far, so good.
He leaned over the coffin, trying to get a better look at the rigging. He usually came out of these things at the start of the match, so it was weirder to going into one at the end.
Tonight's script was to have Colt and D go fifty-fifty, with Colt positioned a the seasoned hero taking down the punk coming back for revenge (art imitating life). A coffin match already demanded a bit of suspension of disbelief--nobody really expected either of the two men to actually die and get buried. But it was an edgy idea, and with the championships only a week or so away, they needed to push the GSA one last time before the big leagues.
Deadboy had already decided not to compete for the world champs. His resurgent love for spellbreaking was solely in entertainment. He'd cheer on White Tiger from the shadows, however.
"So, the demonic prince of darkness is going to take a tumble into his own coffin tonight?"
Deamian heard Bruce come up behind him. The demonic jock from down under patted the side of the (fake) mahogany coffin. "Yeah, yeah, don't bloody remind me. This is Colt's little trust exercise. A lesson in humility or whatever." He sighed and stood. "I've made a real dog's breakfast of my position here in the GSA. I might as well suck up a little and give the boss a free win. Plus, he's a bit too excited to see my healing magick in effect."
Daemian snickered to himself as he leaned over to wrap up the lighting chord, picking up and making a noose. "I'm gonna have him break my bloody neck, choke me out hang-man style, and then dump me into the damn thing. It'll make the audience puke! I can't wait. It'll also make Colt look like a real bad bastard! Maybe even set him up for a heel turn--for massacring his own pupil!" Daemian laughed. "Like that'd bloody happen. Then, I just gotta wait in that coffin til the boys downstairs at the bottom of the lift pull me out."
"And...no concerns if something goes awry?" Bruce said, voice low. He stepped foerward. "Would be a terrible way to die, yeah?"
"You think this is my first time in the forever-box, mate?" Daemian snorted. "I practically sleep in these things. By the way." All smiles and fangs, the punk turned about face and swept back his shock of purple and black hair. "When were you going to tell me?"
Bruce played dumb. "Tell you what?"
"Oh, you know." A dark aura radiated off Daemian as he reached out and pat Bruce on the head. "Kind of a rotten thing to see an old mate turn out to be the assassin who tried to murder his boyfriend."
Daemian's eyes turned solid black and a cold chill swept over the arena.
Bruce barely flinched. His smile, thought not as wide as his former employee's, was somehow even more sinister than the demon summoner's. "You little fool," he seethed. "You could have just kept quiet."
The palm of Bruce's hand flattened itself against the exposed nape of Daemian's neck, just above his chiselled chest. A brief flash of green light sparked off Bruce's hand.
Daemian's eyes transitioned back to his violet-colored irises, and then rolled up inside his head. He fell backwards, over the stage, and into the coffin. The lid shut loudly behind him, echoing throughout the arena.
Bruce paced the stage, surveying his work. "Whoops!" He looked down and examined his head, still crackling with venomous magick. "Your little tricks weren't enough for my venom. Guess you'll be taking that dirt nap a lot sooner than tonight. Shame I've just botched the big show, but I guess the spellbreaking fans will have your name on their lips tonight for different reasons. Deadboy. R.I.P.!"
After collecting himself, Bruce turned back towards the stage and cleared his throat. "Help! HELP! There's been an accident!"
----
One Day Later...
The Firebird board room--an official, more-than-intimidating chamber panelled with dark wood and circled by the federation's banners. Like most old buildings in old Moscow, it carried a palatial air, helped by marble flooring and vaulted ceilings. Training barracks were to the left side of the compound; dorms to the right, with the mess hall square in the middle. It had been an old training ground for the Tsar's battle mages during the war. Like most of the nobility's properties, however, the palace had desperately sold it off during the final days of the conflict.
The board room's long table ran the length of the great, crimson carpet. Seated there were Firebird's top stars: Ivan 'The Wolf', the handsome babyface champion with a winning smile (or sinister, depending on who you asked). Or all gathered, the descendent of Russian folk heroes appeared the most nervous. He was flanked by white-haired Yaya Baga, one of the fed's devious transformation magi along with the giant Bear Misha, who sat opposite Ivan.
Rage had left an empty seat laid out for Slayer St. George, long absent and missed. And, at the head of the table, sat Vahni Rage in his burgundy, tailored suit. He sat with his hands folded, eyes on the door, one hand on his expensive, gold watch.
He was starting to wonder if they had been stood up. He glowered, making everyone else in the room deeply nervous. Vahno had forbade the rest of the roster from attending, not because he thought them unworthy (not all of them, anyway), but because he suspected matters might turn violent, and didn't want the younger blood damaged on his watch.
Finally, with a loud creak, the door pulled open. Semyon Grigorivich, with his dark suit and skull-cane, looked somewhat more dishevelled than normal (which was already saying a lot). He looked at Ivan--his babyface champion--and sullen, gray-haired, Yaya, then at bearded, bald, and mean Misha. Usually, they were all quick to avoid his cold stare.
Not today.
Rage stood, eyes full of resolve. "Please," he said, gesturing to a seat at the far end.
Semyon glared. Still, he wouldn't give them the satisfaction. "It seems you have made an error, sweet Vahni. You appear to be in my chair."
Rage looked at him up and down. "You mean...my chair?"
Semyon's hand gripped tighter around the top of his skull. "So, is this a mutiny? A takeover?" He laughed. "What do you expect me to do, beat my chest and gnash my teeth and cry out, 'After all the things I've done for your ungrateful dogs!'."
"Something like that," Rage sniffed. "We've held a vote. After a thorough investigation of the events surrounding the match between Sailorboy Spike and Vahni Rage, it's been discovered that Spike's soma was tampered with, pre-match."
Semyon smirked. "An investigation done by your impartial soma refining corporation?"
But Rage had come with the receipts. He slammed down a folder, bursting with papers. "All of us gathered here have also submitted documented and dated evidence, over the course of the last year, of Firebird's use of alchemical rubedo as an enhancement drug. This has been submitted to the ISC for review. Furthermore," Rage said, tossing another manila envelop down on the desk, "A joint investigation between INTERPOL and Aradia is now underway, looking into the business dealings of one Semyon Grigorivich and his ties to the former Russian monarchy. The new provincial government, of course, has been more than happy to provide this investigation with anything they need."
Punctuating his statement with great finality, Rage leaned back in his chair and waited for Semyon to say something.
The man took a deep breath. "Let me skip to the plain truth--I could so easily have you all killed. Or, barring such extremes, ensure you are held just as accountable in whatever silly government kangaroo court has been set up in a pathetic attempt to undermine me. I could have your careers ended."
"How, darling?" Yaya challenged him. "We voted Rage in as president. It was a unanimous vote. He may be...brusque...but when it comes to loyalty, he has always had our interests in check."
"Do not make me seem like such a face, Yaya," Rage huffed. He looked to Ivan. "That is our golden boy's prerogative, not mine." Still, he couldn't help but smile. "This is just good business." Besides, if you'd killed Spike before I had the chance to ravish him, I would set this damn world on fire!
Semyon turned his nose up at this former employees. "Hostile takeovers are usually more elegant than this, Rage. I'm disappointed."
It seemed quite apparent to all in the room that Semyon was more than happy to stand and pass his judgments. Still, Rage waited. He picked up a remote control on the desk and held it, one eye on the TV screen behind him.
"The championships no longer matter," Semyon said, icily quiet. "Nor does this federation. Congratulations, Rage. You enjoy your time as president of Firebird. It will be a short one. You've already given me what I need. I still have the Black Library."
Semyon felt the air behind him move, as the door opened. What other clown had been invited to this circus, he wondered bemusedly.
"Oh, do you?"
Semyon cringed, just as Rage began to smile. "Mr. Netjeer," he said, turning to face the giant, handsome man with the long braid and golden jewellery on his fingers. "Oh, I do apologise. King Anubis. Or Jackal or..."
"Or Rasputin, or Koschei, or Semyon Grigorivich," Mr. Salim said, smiling ear to ear. "Funny thing about us long lived bastards--we never really can settle on a name!" Salim nodded to Rage. "And the thing about libraries, Semsem, is that they're full of books. Books, as you know, are full of paper. And the thing about paper is that, well, it's quite flammable."
Without looking at the set, Rage pointed the remote at the TV and flicked the power on. The other spellbreakers in the room turned their heads towards footage of a stately Russian building in the background of the Kremlin, burning.
Semyon's mouth twitched. "I see."
The movement between Semyon and Salim was so quick that normal eyes could not perceive it. Semyon raised his cane, the red skull glowing, meeting the eye-shaped, luminous blue pendant in Salim's hand. The two artefacts touched, and exploded into light.
Semyon flew across the room, sliding across the table, stopping just inches away from Rage, who didn't so much flinch. The others pushed their chairs away out of shock. Breathing ragged, and wide eyed, Semyon rose his head and looked towards Salim.
What was left of the Eye of Osiris crumbled to the ground into charred carbon, right next to the sunken-in skull that housed Semyon's Eye of Set. "Masks off," Salim said, wiping his hand on an expensive, silk kerchief inside his breast pocket. "And just in time for the world championships, too!" Semyon bolted off the table, onto his feet, before Rage could dare harm him.
"Redback has been sent to kill both Colt and Deadboy," Semyon snarled. He realized there was only one way out of the room, but he already knew Salim would allow him to leave. "And your precious little Sailor is nowhere to be found!"
Salim rolled his eyes. "Yeah, we know about Redback. He's dead. Well, not dead. But he won't be bothering us any time soon." Salim made a circular motion with his index finger around his temple. Crazy.
Semyon blinked. "What?"
Now, it was Rage who stood. "Mr. Netjeer, I trust you've already summoned the authorities to manage the ex-president?"
Salim looked to Semyon, and then up to Rage. "Nah."
"...What?"
Salim stepped aside, giving Semyon clearance. The mad monk looked briefly at the smug giant, before growling and bolting out the room.
"Why the hell did you let him go?" Rage said, trying to suppress his anger. Cooler heads, it seemed, tended to prevail, these days.
At last, Salim took a seat at the table, clunking down a concealed (and rather large) bottle of champagne. "Semsem still has a part to play in this drama, I'm afraid. You want an interesting world championship, Mr. President? Then we let fate unfold as designed. Rest assured, Semyon will not be the one who gets the happy ending."
Rage's jaw clenched, but he sat back in his chair and said nothing. He had the company in his hands now, and Semyon on the run. He had his win. It was best not to push things further.
But he still had his pride. "And who will be fighting the world champion at the tournament?"
Salim smiled. "I thought you might put your hat into the ring, Rage. Well, metaphorically speaking. I've never seen you in a hat before. Of course, you won't be the only one." He twisted the cork off the champagne in one swift motion, the pop startling everyone else in the room. He watched and allowed the frothy liquid to flow onto the carpet.
"But first, we allow Semyon to reveal his hand. We backed him into a corner. That's when snakes and scorpions are their deadliest. But...in this instance, we need Semyon desperate. Trust me, Ragey, it's alllll part of the plan. Now, are you going to sit there and let me drink this Veuve all by myself, or are you cuties going to join me in celebrating?"
He held the bottle up to Rage's stunned face "To Vahni Rage. Champion and President of Firebird. Long may he reign in Hell!"
----
One Day Earlier...
"Cheap beer."
Spike placed a can of disgusting, imported beer down at the triangle at the north point of the salt pentacle he'd created in the center of Varla's kitchen floor.
He grabbed the package of chocolate covered biscuits from the counter and placed it on the eastern corner. "TimTams," he said. He paused, removed one of the biscuits for himself and popped it into his mouth. All that time travel had made him hungry.
He used a heavy metal vinyl (Talbane and the Werewolves) for the western point. Already stressed out, Spike examined the list that Deadboy had jotted down for him some time back. "Wait, seriously? Where the hell am I gonna find..."
Spike looked over at Varla's glass armoire, wherein a series of taxidermized ravens, foxes, and a vaguely human looking skull resides. Cringing, Spike took out the skull, made a face, and placed it in the center.
Finally (and most embarrassing of all), Spike ran to the guestroom where he'd been staying and withdrew the magazine hidden beneath the bed cushion. On the cover, a muscular, green-skinned demon man with horns (and pierced nipples) winked at the viewer as he coquettishly tugged down his speedo. HELLBOUND HUNKS.
"And finally...er..." Spike bit his lip as he placed the magazine in the center. "Weirdly specific smut." After examining the coffee-stained note one last time, Spike stepped out of the summoning circle and took a deep breath. He'd never performed dark magick before, let alone 'old' magick.
"Back in Black,
Hit the sack,
I summon thee, Deadboy,
Aussie, Aussie, Aussie,
Oy! Oy! Oy!"
A wind kicked up in Varla's kitchen. Shadows danced across the room, forming a vortex of violet, dark energy in the middle of the salt circle. A poof of black smoke later, and there stood a tall, muscular man--clad only in his skull-print boxers--midway through brushing his teeth.
Deadboy glared around the room, noticed Spike, and spit a wad of toothpaste on Varla's kitchen floor. "Really?"
"Not on the floor, not on the floor!" Spike winced. "I gotta' clean that up. And...uh...you...do hygiene now?"
Daemian rolled his eyes. "It's Joseph. He...wait, why the hell am I tellin' you this, you dog?" He stepped out of the circle and immediately arm dragged Spike into a headlock. "What the bloody hell am I doin' here, Spikey!? You better have summoned me for a damn good reason, you little bludger!"
Spike easily removed himself from under Deadboy's (Strangely washed) armpit, pulling him into a hug instead. "Daemian! I missed you so much. And you smell...good? (Is that lavender and mint?) I'm a bit concerned..."
"Awww, Spikey. I missed you too, chook." Deadboy held him out at arms length, then looked him up and down. "Hey, since I'm just in my boxers..." He said, slowly starting to pull them off. "Wait...IS THAT MY PORN!?"
Spike pressed his hand over the towel, to Daemian's abs. "There's no friggin' time for that now! Something really scary is happening. That's why I called you here. We gotta' get to the GSA on the double!"
"Scary's my middle name, Spikey! Well, actually, it's Matthew. But what's going on?"
"Bruce...is Redback!"
"WHAT!?" Daemian's eyes turned hollow black. "That bastard. Ugh, figures. He was a right s*** PR agent."
"Oh...er...I didn't expect you take that at face value." Spike scratched his head.
The demon summoning Aussie crossed his arms. "I'd had my suspicions. Damn it; he's at the bloody GSA ready to set up a match with me and Colt!"
"OH NO!"
"Don't worry." Deadboy nodded. It was probably the first time Spike had ever felt like the crazed punk had remotely grasped the concept of empathy. "Leave this one to your big mate, Damo."
"But Damo, my guy, he's like a deadly assassin!"
"Yeah, well I'm deadlier. And CRAZIER. So, he's the one who tried to hurt White Tiger?"
Spike's jaw dropped. "Damn it, that's right. He's been on our case for awhile, huh? Do we call the cops or what?"
"Nah, don't trust the pigs." Deadboy stuck his hand out. Clouds of darkness and swirls of purple light formed around him. "I'll open us a portal back to the GSA. Go grab your jump bag, Spike."
"I'm a pizza waiter, Deadboy," Spike called over his shoulder as he ran to the bedroom to get his suitcase. "Do you think I even have a friggin' jump bag! Besides, Colt doesn't even want me back at the GSA."
"Yeah? Well, everyone else does. I'm on the card tonight, and I can choose whichever damn person I want to do valet for me. Colt can kiss my bloody arse if he wants to have a whinge about it."
Spike returned with a clumsily stuffed suitcase. "Damn it, I forgot to water the plants. It's fine. I'm sure Varla will understand."
Daemian summoned his darkness, and opened the portal onto a long, black corridor. "Oh, Bazza. You bloody mucked up now..."
----
One Day Later...
Colt nearly tripped over his own massive legs trying to make his way from the stage. "Lachlan!"
Bruce leaned over the trap door leading to the basement--the mechanism that was meant to take Deadboy's coffin down "into the earth" and deliver him safely to the crew and staff below. The red-faced man dabbed at his face with a kerchief. "Oh, thank Goddess! Colt, I tried to stop the damn thing, but it locked up and took him under. I...I...couldn't get him out."
For a moment, Colt said nothing. His eyes darted back and forth, and he took a step back. "Lachlan..."
"You should go call the authorities," Bruce said, sullenly. "It...may be too late, however."
Colt placed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, head bowed low. "Really?"
"I know. This must be quite a shock."
"No, it's just...funny."
"I...beg your pardon?"
Colt shrugged, putting on his best country-boy smile. "Yeah, real funny. Because, Brucey, you ol' son of a gun--the kid looks like he's just fine to me!" Colt looked over Bruce's shoulder.
The middle aged Australian man frowned. Then, he felt the air around him grow colder, more tense. A chill slithered down his back. He didn't need to turn around. Nevertheless, he felt the icy hand on his shoulder...and the fingers digging in deep.
"Long time no see....mate."
Bruce swallowed. He turned around, coming face to face with the devil.
Or, close enough. Deadboy Daemian stood there, no worse for wear, giving Bruce his most sinister of smiles, while plumes of dark energy dissipated off his intimidating, muscular form.
Bruce took another step back. "D...Daemian! Well, a bloody miracle, that is." His path backward was suddenly blocked by Colt's hard body.
He was trapped.
Daemian maintained his evil aura, savouring his old co-worker's fear--especially as Deadboy reached up to his chest and peeled off the thin, nearly invisible layer of plastic-like bandaging that he'd placed on his chest and exposed limbs, knowing Bruce would most likely target one of those areas. Nurse Wheeler had set him up with the material, normally reserved for banding wounds and burns.
Bruce had been so shocked by this sudden deception that he failed to notice the coffin, sitting upright, behind Daemian--just like in his eerie entrances.
"Shadow magick," Daemian explained, sticking his tongue out and licking his teeth in a maniacal, wolfish display. "Cheap and nasty teleportation."
"Well!" Bruce stammered, trying to slowly manoeuvre himself out of the way. "That's great!"
Just as he turned on his heels, Colt caught him by the throat. "You poked the wrong armadillo today, hoss," Colt leered. "Messin' with my kids."
Bruce had not retaliation. He went numb with Colt's quick and sharp injection of enough voltage to bring the man to his knees.
"Redback," Daemian spat, circling around the man, on the hunt. "Of course it just had to be a fellow Aussie with a name like that." He yanked the man up by the neck, forcing his face dangerously close to Daemian's own. "You tried to kill Tiger. Not only my boyfriend, but a Goddess-damn saint in my eyes. Do you think I'd forgive you for that?"
Bruce found his tongue, momentarily looking up into Colt's eyes, pleading mercy. Then, the killer remembered his pride. His tone changed. "Well, have a sook why don't you, miserable brat! Ice Cream Man should have left you to rot in prison. Descendent of convicts and warlocks alike. Nothing but filth!"
Daemian leered, digging his nails into the man's cheek, drawing blood. "Do you know why I ended up in prison in the first place?"
Now, Colt felt the need to intervene. "Woah there, Tex. We agreed to call the sheriff."
Daemian vibrated with rage. The shadowy miasma around him only grew and intensified. "You agreed, boss." His voice dripped with syrupy venom.
Of course, Redback knew all about the later. With a cutting sneer, he shot his hand out at Deadboy, eager to put him away for good.
Lachlan caught his wrist with little difficulty. His hands covered by motorcycle gloves, he was immune to Redback's toxic magick. He twisted Bruce's hand into a wristlock, forcing him to stand up.
"YEAH, NAH! Don't try it, mate. You're f***ed."
Bruce winced. "GAH! My hand."
Colt couldn't tell if Daemian had broken it, but if not, he was on the verge. "D. That's enough."
It wasn't. "You leave this one with me, boss!" Daemian snarled. "He's about to find out why you don't f*** with my mates. OR MY BOYFRIEND."
Bruce had no defense. He forced himself to stand taller, leveraging Deadboy's joint lock. Deadboy just laughed and revered his arm into a hammer lock, driving it up Bruce's back.
"How much taller on your tippy toes can you stand," Deadboy whispered, sadistically into his ear.
"Lachlan, we can talk this out! I can tell you everything I know about Firebird. About Semyon Grigorivich."
Colt's eyes bugged out. "Wait...Deadboy."
"I AIN'T LISTENING!" Daemian shrieked. Choosing violence, Deadboy pushed Bruce away with a kick from his Doc Martins, positioning Bruce for maximum punishment. The dark magi made a swirling motion with his leather-clad glove, channelling a vortex of shadow on the ground. "Come to me, tag partner."
On his hands and knees, all Bruce could do was look up at the growing, dark shape rising out from the hollow black. Piercing, glowing white eyes burrowed into his soul. The hulking, muscular leather-clad demon--Braxius--loomed over his prey, growling.
"You..." The demon said in his resonate, bone-chilling baritone. "You've hurt many. Without remorse. You bring pain and death to the innocent. All for what? It matters not. Nothing you say will you spare you...from the judgment of The Infernals."
Bruce sputtered, one final please. "B...Brax. Please. Beggin' ya, mate! Don't..."
The demon didn't allow the accused to state his case. The monster shoved Bruce's head into his massive thighs and hoisted him into the air, darkened with shadowy cloud. With man tucked squarely between his thighs, the demon jumped onto the stage, and turned around to face the ring.
Colt whippsed his head towards Deadboy. "You ain't..."
"Oh," Deadboy laughed, making a slit-throat motion towards Brax. "I am. You're ridin' the Highway to Hell mate!"
Brax flew through the air. Colt thought he even hung there, suspended, for a moment. Then, he brought his massive weight down, spiking Bruce into the floor. By the time he landed, Deadboy was already mid-air, bringing down his weight onto Bruce's chest with his boots.
Total destruction.
Redback, bloodied and bruised, yet still somehow conscious (but barely) found himself hoisted onto his toes by his former coworker. The demoniac looked into his eyes (now facing the opposite directions), examining him.
Deadboy acknowledge Colt. If only to get the man off his case. "I'm not gonna kill him, champ. Nah. I'm just gonna have my friends on the other side...play with him for a little while." He laughed, maliciously. "When I drag him out of Gehenna--say, an hour or so from now--he'll be a changed man. Trust me."
Then, he shoved Bruce's body forward. It landed in the silk-lined coffin. The lid shut.
Deadboy snapped his fingers, opening up a new portal. Colt reeled back at the sudden rush of cold wind and the reeking stench of sulphur. A hundred or more squirming, tendrils and shadowy arms thrust through the gateway, entwining themselves around the coffin, dragging it into the dark corridor. Cold barely registered Bruce's screams, from inside his confines, as the box vanished into the portal, which shut close with a flash of light.
All was quiet. Colt, wordlessly, looked at The Infernals. Daemian's head was lowered. Brax, sniffing the air, wrapped his meaty arm around his partner's neck, and nuzzled him affectionately.
He was crying.
Patient, and concerned, Colt moved closer to his employee. He understood the man needed to enact the justice he through Bruce deserved, and he knew he'd be a damned hypocrite if he chastised him for it.
"Never really could trust anyone..." Deadboy sniffed. "Not even my own fed, apparently."
Colt nodded. "I think the scary Ice Cream guy would disagree, cowboy. Hell, he'll probably be just as shocked when he finds out. And I sure as hell promise you, kiddo, that you can trust us mavericks here in the GSA. We're family, boy."
Deadboy sighed and looked away.
"Hell, Daemian, I'd have dug up the earth with my own hands and dug you out myself, if I had to."
"Even after everything I did to you guys?" Daemian said.
Colt laughed. "Kid, you're one psycho heel. But you're a good little dogie too. You just saved our hides from that creep, for starters."
At Brax's silent encouragement, Deadboy nodded, forcing a smile. "Well, wasn't just me and Brax, boss. We...er...had help, yeah?" He looked askance.
"O'course," Colt went on, tapping his chin, "y'all will need to yank that yellow-belly'd so-and-so outta' hell eventually. As a bonafide babyface, I can't well let a bunch of demons torture him in perpetuity....even if the sum'bitch did deserve it. And what do you mean you had help?"
"Deadboy!" A somewhat grizzled, feminine voice--like the gayest mobster or old timey paperboy--called from the other side of the room.
Colt blinked, registering who'd just spike. "What in tarnation?"
From the top rope, Spike--dressed in one of Colt's old promo T-shirts--flipped off the top rope and landed easily on his feet. He gave his 'audience' a winning smile. But he refused to meet Colt's eyes.
Deadboy immediately jumped to his friend's defense, as Brax bounded forward to give Spike a tight (too tight) hug and nuzzle. "Now, don't go an spit the dummy, Tambo--"
Colt blinked. "Tambo?"
"Short for Tamberly," Spike demured. "It's...an Aussie thing."
Brax held Spike close to him, protectively, like a mama bear guarding a cub, while Daemian did the talking. "Listen, yous. Spike warned me about Bruce. He even used my own spell to summon me!"
"You're...crushing my lungs," Spike squeeked, struggling in the affectionate demon's bear hug. The monster let him go. Finally, Spike acknowledge Colt. "Oh. Er...hi."
Colt growled. Outside, a roll of thunder matched his displeasure.
Smiling awkwardly, Spike did his best to state his case. "I came through Daemian's shadow corridor. Nearly lost my lunch too. Look, Colt, I'm sorry for everything! I didn't mean to get Buck in trouble. I got...I got too cocky. But I was just lookin' out for his pride, I swear!"
Colt crossed his arms and gave Spike a stare-down. "Go on...give me a Goddess-damn reason why I don't shock you silly and have you throw out into the desert, boy."
Spike took a deep breath. The one time he didn't find Colt calling him 'boy's sexy. "I got a crush on your son, boss. And sometimes that means sticking up for him. But...I also have a lot of respect for his dad. You were and will always be my hero, and original favorite spellbreaker."
"Only favorite spellbreaker would suffice," Colt sniffed.
"And I know you were just lookin' out for me too," Spike continued. "Sometimes, even though you do your best, I think you can still be a bit old school. But I know by now that it comes from a place of love. You're worried. You try to protect us. But...Colt, we gotta' f*** up and let the universe knock us up the head sometimes."
"Knock you silly, boy," Colt said. He sighed. "Nah, Yankee, I should...." He swallowed, as if he had just been presented with a spoonful of particular foul tasting medicine. "Apologise." He looked to Daemian.
Deadboy made a rolling otion with his hands. "Come on, champ, you can say it."
"To..." Colt winced. "...Yoooou? I was..." He looked as if he might puke. "Wrrrr. Wrrrr. WrrrroOHnnn....OH I can't say it!"
"It's...okay, boss," Spike said, trying not to sound so defeated. "I'm not here as an employee. I'm here as a friend."
Colt blew a stray hair out his eyes, and slicked back his frizzy, electrified hair. "Look, son. I know you hold a candle for my kid. You want to court him? Start by talking some damn sense into him and easing him into his magick. He listens to you."
Spike couldn't believe it. Even Deadboy gave him a sly thumbs up. "Really? I have your blessing? I mean...Buck and I haven't really sealed the deal yet, y'know. And with his recent...er...developments, I'd want to go slow."
Colt crossed his arms. "If you do decide to make my boy an honest man, then you have my blessing. BUT...you better treat him right." Colt winked. "After all, you know who his daddy is." Thank goodness Buck or Spike can't get pregnant, he thought.
Spike was so relieved, and ecstatic, that he nearly forgot the real reason he'd come with Deadboy. "What's gonna' happen to that schmuck, Redback?"
"We'll have the sheriff hold him in the county jail," Colt explained. "Then again, he's one dangerous hombre. I wouldn't even trust him after Deadboy's demon buddies learn him good. I'll contact Aradia and see if they can get the feds on this."
That was good news. But it didn't offer Spike much relief. The situation was much more dire than Colt probably realized. "That's...not the only thing I came here to tell you about. You see, Salim isn't who he says he is."
Colt scratched his head. "He's not the world champion? Would you reckon, I damn near forgot that!"
"Because he made you forget," Spike said. He looked to Deadboy and Brax. "He made us all forget. He's an extremely powerful magi."
Colt winced. "I'll be damned. I can clearly remember conversations where he told me he didn't have magick. But...I knew he was King Anubis...didn't I?"
"He rewrote time!"
Colt blinked and tossed Deadboy a concerned look. "Did you...er...power bomb Spike one too many times?"
"I'm friggin' serious, Colt! He's like, a demi god, or an immortal, or some kind of time traveller--I'm still trying to figure it out. I don't think he's bad though. Hell, he kicked Semyon's butt--oh, and by the way...Semyon Grigorivich is friggin' RASPUTIN!"
The president of the GSA cocked his head to the side. "The trumpet player guy?"
"No, you're thinking Louis Armstrong." Spike shook his head. He was being out-himbo'd. "Look. I'm tired. All I can tell you is that we need to contact Lily at Aradia. I think...really bad things are about to happen!"
The drunken celebrants in the bar (not all of them human) raised their beer mugs to Spike in a raucous cheer.
Daemian, grinning ear to ear, handed him his own boot...filled with beer. "Alright, mate, you know what to do."
Spike's stomach turned into knots. Sadly, he did know what to do...he just didn't want to do it. "Oh, Goddesss--your boot!?" It smells so bad. I'm not into feet.
Whether he wanted to or not, the half-pint hero of the day found himself stuck between a barrel chested demon with an ox head, and a busty witch with a crow on her shoulder (who also joined in the drinking song).
The ghoulish assembly sang in unison as Spike chugged.
Here's to Spikey, he's true blue!
He's a piss-pot through and through!
He's a bastard, so they say!
He tried to go to Heaven, but he went the other way!
Spike's forced grin made Daemian's sadistic smile grow larger. Now, the dark magi mouthed: 'Drink it, now'
He went down...down...
Spike said a silent prayer to the Goddess and commenced chugging the boot-soaked beer. Thankfully, the blonde powerhouse (who had just helped save Sydney harbour from demonic destruction) had a very good gag reflex.
He threw down the boot triumphantly on the bar, and then let out a triumphant burp.
The crowd lost their mind. "YAAAAY!" Soon, Spike was being hoisted on shoulders and paraded around the haunted pub. The four armed bartender quietly took Deadboy's boot, wiped it down, polished it, and poured the dark magi and his demon friend, Brax another drink--all at the same time.
Brax looked down at the frothy mug. He didn't drink, so instead passed the mug onto his companion. "Why...did you not summon me during the fight, my kindred? I could have helped."
Daemian was content to let Spike soak up the limelight. Honestly, he wasn't feeling much like a winner at the moment. "I didn't want to risk losing you, bud," he muttered, taking a chug.
"But...if you had died. I would have lost you."
Deadboy shrugged. "Then I would have seen you in Hell."
"Your human sarcasm-as-defense-mechanism belays the fact that you know that it does not work that way, dark one. Gehenna is not the realm of mortal punishment." The canid demon looked away. "Furthermore, why are none of these smelly mortals celebrating you as hard as Spike. It seems you have passed on all the glory to him."
Daemian shrugged, eying a mounted stag head on the wall, (which, in turn, eyed him right back, turning its nose up). "Don't wanna be a tall poppy, ya know? Besides, these folks think I'm trash anyway. All the pranks I've pulled in this town. Hell, in this own pub."
The mounted stag snorted. "You can say that again, ya c***t."
The handsome demoniac lifted up his mug to the decapitated head. "Cheers to you too, Frank." He neglected to tell Brax the time he and Frank had gotten into blows, which had ended with Daemian throwing the animated skull into the loo. And on taco Tuesday night, no less.
After three lapse around the bar, a hefty lizard-man gently lowered Spike back onto a bar stool. The dark magi and monsters patted him on the back, but otherwise left him to his own company.
The familiar, tattooed sailor next to Spike tipped his hat to him.
"Way to go, Spikey," Mick said.
Their reunion earlier in the night--post monster--had been one of many head-spinning moments for Spike, who hadn't seen Mick since his dishonourable discharge. What felt like a lifetime ago was, in truth, only a year.
The taste of boot and hops still intermingling inside Spike's mouth, the blonde hunk shook his head. "I'm trying not to hurl, Mick. But...good seeing you again."
Even with his gold tooth, Mick was the epitome of tasty, rough trade. "Almost like fate, right?"
Suddenly, a vision of that haggard tarot card reader under the bridge in Manhattan came rushing back to Spike. "Yeah," he mumbled. Speaking of fate.Shit, has it really been a year?
"Shore leave. Though honestly, I think I might stay in Sydney after my time is up. I miss home, you know." Mick threw down his beer. The man was in love with life. Nothing bothered him.
Which is why it was weird for Spike to see Mick expressing genuine sentiments. The handsome tattooed sailor cuffed Spike on the shoulder (hard enough that Spike felt his powers activate). "Get a bloody look at you, Waterford. Damn spellbreaking legend, you are. This is the dream you always wanted. I'm so proud."
Spike, who constantly craved validation, never quite knew what to do when getting a compliment suplex like this. He turned away, blushing. "Oh, geez. Dream? I dunno, man. Sometimes it's more like a nightmare, Mick."
"Hmm. You miss the Navy?"
Spike nearly spat out his brew. "Nah. I miss some people. You, for one."
"Ah, big sweetie." Mick wrapped his giant arm around Spike's neck, bringing him in for a hug. It was then Spike realized two things: he was starting to get tipsy, and then Mick hadn't put on deodorant today.
Not that Spike minded much.
"Say, who's that strapping, fiery-headed bloke with the scowl?" Mick turned his head towards a neglected part of a bar, where a certain Cian O'Rourke was drinking by his lonesome and looking glamorously glum.
Spike felt bad. But he didn't know what to say. Even though Buck's kiss had a purpose behind it, it had also proven a point. "Cian," Spike muttered. "He's my coworker and..." Spike thought about what to call him. "Friend. Yeah...friend."
Then it occurred to him why Mick had asked. Spike whipped his head between the two. He's hot, muscular, red-headed and Irish. Mick is hot, muscular, tattooed, and Australian. Shit, if male-assigned-men could make babies...
Spike spoke as if he had just discovered the wheel. "You should...go and talk to him."
Mick made a face. "What? Big, handsome guy like that? And get a look at those legs! He could put one of the Sydney Convicts to shame. I dunno, Spikey. Maybe after some liquid courage."
Spike nodded and, feeling like Mick needed the space to be Mick, got up and left. However, as he looked over his shoulder, he thought he spied a miracle: Cian had come over to speak to Mick, and by that smile on his face, not merely to ask him for a cigarette either. That's my boy.
The air grew cold as Spike crept towards the staircase. Hiding in the shadows, the gloomy, ghoulishly handsome Daemian put a cigarette to his lips, his skull-shaped lighter lighting it with a creepy, green flame.
The badboy fighter barely acknowledged his comrade-at-arms. "Needed a dart." He took a long drag. "Normally, this would be the part of the night where I'd ask if you wanted to go off for a quick root, but..."
He sighed smoke. "I hate to say it, but all I can think about is...him." He winced.
Spike sensed who 'him' was. "Joseph?"
"SHHHHH NOT SO LOUD!"
Though smug, Spike was understanding. He crossed his arms and put a knee up on the bannister, throwing a side-eye at a drunk man hitting on two, unamused succubi sitting at a table in the corner. "You know, you're allowed to break kayfabe with your teammates...mate."
Daemian shrugged. "I don't like getting close to people," he said. "One side...always disappoints the other."
Spike didn't have time for Daemian's broody boy, Scorpio philosophy. "DUDE, you just frickin; saved Sydney. You're a damn hero!"
"STOP SAYING THAT!" Daemian reacted, as if Spike had just yelled he used wet the bed as a kid (which, to be fair, he did) "Spikey, please! Growing up, everyone said I was the bad guy. Now it's weird thinking I did something actually good for once." He put on a sour expression. "This isn't a face-turn, got it? I'm just...er..."
Daemain stamped out the buttof his cigarette, on his tongue no less--and rather than chuck it to the ground, ate it one gulp.
"Happy. I guess. I'm happy, Spike. There. I said it."
"Aww, D!"
Spike jumped into Daemia's arms, nuzzling his face like a small cat.
"I will knock you into next Tuesday, let g---awww fine." Deadboy rolled his eyes, but placed one gentle hand on his friend's hat, patting it. "Thanks, mate. You know, none of these GSA c**ts say it enough, but ever since you and Cian and Kengo joined up, you three have been like a damn trinity of joy, or somethin'. You're like the...I dunno, the glue that holds the place together."
Deadboy grabbed Spike by the shoulders and held him in front of him, at arm's length, so he could look at him.
"Especially you."
"Wow. Thanks." Spike felt his eyes getting all starry. This was where he'd normally start to crush on a hot guy for complimenting him.
But then he realized that Daemian's friendship was much more valuable.
"Don't get used to it," Daemian scowled. He jabbed a thumb at the bar. "Well. I'm gonna get back on the sauce. Maybe I'll dark-corridor to Joseph. Been meaning to check up on him in Japan. Heard Kengo is going to be fighting in Okami for a match."
"Shit!" Spike exclaimed, loudly. He'd been so preoccupied with the tournament, and the Chalice drama, that he'd forgotten to check in on his own roommate. "I should go support him."
"Something tells me that you need rest," Daemian said.
Damn, Deadboy actually caring about me? I must be dreamin'
"Uncle Daniel isn't much for drinking--or compliments--so he's not around but I'm sure I can convince him to zap you back to San Antonio lickity-split."
"That power..." Spike said, under his breath. "Even your Dark Corridors take some time to get through, and not just any normal person can traverse them..."
"Yeah, it's how airplanes stay in business--what's your point?"
"But Uncle Daniel's glyph..."
Daemian looked concerned, not an emotion Spike usually associated with him. "Please keep it a secret, Spike. I'm no tryin' to threaten you, just..."
"Well?"
The punk looked askance. "His glyph is 'Space'."
Spike frowned. "Quit fuckin' with me, wise guy. That glyph do't exist. The book Varla gave me says Space and Time magi went extinct long, long ago."
"Your book don't know the half of it, mate, trust me. Magick is so much stranger and crazier than any egghead scholar knows."
There really was a smart, considerate fellow under that grungy exterior. Who knew? Certainly not Spike. There's tons more I need to learn about magick. Shit.
"Just keep on guard, Spike. I got this feeling in me gut...thing's are about to get intense." With that ominous delivery, Daemian walked away, leaving Spike in the dust.
"More intense?" Spike mumbled. He walked back to the bar. Cian was drinking by himself again, but judging from the half finished pint next to him, only temporarily. "Hey...Cian."
Cian looked like he had just eaten his own shoe in front of Spike. "Er. Hi."
"I'm sorry about Buck--"
"Why are you apologising?" Cian's eyes immediately went to the bathroom door in the back, and Spike put two-and-two togher. "We aren't a thing. I thought we squared that away in the hotel."
"Er...right. I just felt."
"Guilty?" Cian smirked at him. "I'm not going to say anything, boyo. Besides, Mick is coming back in a moment and he...is" Cian blushed. "He is cuuuuute."
"Wah!" Spike's eyes lit up. "Ciannnn!"
The Irish stud put a finger to his lips. "Don't blow this for me, boyo. Besides, we got bigger fish to fry. I need to call John Henry tomorrow." Cian surveyed the room, and, satisfied they were safe, lowered is voice. "While I was trying to apprehend Redback, that Gold Mask guy appeared."
"No frickin' way. Him?"
"Spike, keep your voice down!"
"Sorry!"
"Anyways, big lad saved my arse."
"So....he's a good...guy?"
Cian didn't look so certain. "He gives me a weird feeling, Brooklyn. I'm not saying I'm the best magi out there, but I got a keen eye for magick. His is...it's powerful, and I know he's restraining it. I don't know what his deal is, or why he's helping us, but nothing about him sits right with me."
Just as Spike went to say something more, Mick barged into the scene. He grabbed Spike with one arm, and Cian with the other. Kissed both on the cheek too.
"Can I buy you lads a drink?"
Spike didn't want to steal this moment from his friend, and so gently removed himself from Mick's grasp. "You can by that lad a drink." He looked at Cian and mouthed 'go get 'em tiger.'
Cian glared, as his face turned beet-red. "Feck off. Thank you. By the way....Buck's upstairs. Drinking by himself." He looked away. "You should go fix that."
Spike felt his heart sink. He removed himself from the room and crept up the staircase, terrified and excited. When he got upstairs (and damn, the Aussies had giant pubs) Spike looked around for any sign of his boss, crush, and friend. A few skeletons sat around a table playing Poker, but that was it. The bartender, a lizard woman, pointed politely to the terrace.
Spike found himself looking out over the harbor, at the lights of Horror Land under the harbor bridge. It was then that he realized the night sky above, normally a gray, washed out ceiling with scant few stars, was completely covered in cosmic brilliance. Galaxies. Constellations. Spike had only seen this type of night sky when he was sailing below the equator, far out sea, where the lights of the city couldn't reach. It didn't make sense.
"Woah..." he said. "How?"
"People think dark magick is inherently evil," someone said from above.
Spike craned his neck up. There was a small ladder leading to the pub's roof, the sight of its steepled clock face. "Buck?"
Buck poked his handsome face over the side of the upper roof. "But dark magi can do beautiful things like take the light pollution out of the sky, giving us the true night." He looked up. "The dark magi of Sydney cast a spell tonight in celebration. Can you believe it?" He fell back, past where Spike couldn't see. "I should warn you...I'm a bit high."
"And I'm a but drunk," Spike said, with a trill in his heart, as he climbed up the ladder. He found Buck, knees to chest, underneath the large, stained-glass clock face. "So I guess we're both on the ropes, eh?"
Buck patted the ground next to him, indicating Spike should sit.
Spike, deciding to take the lead this time, kissed him quick, before either of them could get into their heads about it.
Buck winced. "Oh."
"EXCUSE YOU?" Spike said, offended.
"No, not because of the kiss! It's just...I heard they made you drink out of Daemian's boot. Which means...I just kissed the mount that drank from Deadboy's shoe."
"It's called 'a shooey'. And I'm not going to say rude thing's about someone else's culture but..." Spike felt his stomach turn.
"You probably just immunized yourself against like 8 tropical diseases doing that. Also, congrats on saving Sydney or whatever."
"You helped."
"I know," Buck said, snarky. "Your aim needs work."
"Your face needs work!" Spike winced. "Ugh, no it doesn't"
"You're such a dork, Yank."
"I'm going to kiss you again."
"I'm going to let you."
And without fanfare or build-up, Spike and Buck's lips were suddenly connected again. And for a while, too. Spike couldn't remember the last time he'd locked lips with someone for so long. He couldn't breathe. He didn't want to breathe. He wanted to drown in Buck's kiss, if it were possible.
They broke away at the same time. Buck, smiling, couldn't resist falling back on teasing. "Wow, I can't believe it only took a kaiju to get you to finally make a damn move."
Easily rattled, Spike blushed. "I WAS WAITING FOR YOU TO DO SOMETHING, BUCK. Also, was it technically a kaiju or a Lovecraft?"
"I think it's only a kaiju if it comes from Japan, otherwise it's sparkling eldritch horror."
"...And you tellin' me I'm the dork?"
"Yes. So...what now?"
Spike and Buck looked at each other as if they were suddenly the last two men on Earth.
Immediately, Spike turned to how stupid all of this was. And sudden. He felt like he was on a runaway train, but strangely...he wanted to see whether or not it would crash or end up somewhere new, exciting...
Maybe even stable.
"You're the president of the GSA," Spike blurted out, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe what he was doing. "If El Amante finds out about this. I dunno what's worse, getting put in a deathlock or having to file out a disciplinary form. At least one would turn me on more than the other."
Buck acknowledge Spike's concern, and promptly jumped up on his Chuck Taylors, striking a dramatic, heroic pose.
He took on an exaggerated accent. "'Mi hijo, as head of HR I cannot in good faith condone your relations with a fellow employee....however, as the Guardian of Love, I hold romance to be sacred above all other things, and I strongly encourage you to woo Spike and make him feel like the most special man in all the world'."
Buck sat back down next to Spike. he winked at him. "Is probably what he'd say."
Unfortunately, he was right. "I can't believe we put so much trust in a man who doesn't even show his real face. But look, Buck, I don't want to fuck things up. I got a history."
"I know. So do I. Besides, I'm more of a take things slow guy. Look, with Rosa...someone I really liked went on to bigger and better things. I guess I'm afraid of that happening to you too, because let's face it...you're probably on the way to champ."
Spike rolled his eyes. "I just got silver star status, Buck."
"Within a year?" He gave him a bemused expression. "The last person to do that..."
He swallowed his words.
Spike cocked his head to the side. "Hm?"
"...Was my dad."
"OH! But wait, I thought he--"
"Calavera Escarlata came up with the star system. Dad trained under him." The heir to the GSA shuffled in his seat and looked up at the brilliant sky. "He has no idea I'm in Australia, probably. Ever since Varla showed up, he's gone off the deep end. I think he went to Japan to blow off steam with Okami. He'll beat up a few brutes, throw back a few sake bombs, and then get it out of system. I feel like I should...I dunno, be trying to get to know Varla and Laura better. I mean, a half-sister! That's nuts."
"Oh, and your...actual mom," Spike pointed out.
"We know what our relationship looks like now. She's fine."
Judging from the look in Buck's eyes, Spike believed it.
"I know where everyone sits in my life now, Yank. Except...you."
In a moment of resounding clarity, and unexpected maturity, Spike lowered his shoulders and looked at Buck without expectation, nor judgment. "Well, what do you want?"
"For now, fun."
Spike nodded. "I guess I'm okay with fun."
"And to see where it goes. And...I would like it to go somewhere."
The innocent spark of romance. Spike and Buck kissed anew, smiling, giggling, feeling stupid and drunk and high.
It was great.
Spike sighed. Okay, make some moves. Heartbreaker smile activated."Well, for starters...we could go back to my hotel. Unless Cian is there. With Mick."
Buck leaned in closer. "We can go back to mine. Business suite? Champagne. Do you like champagne."
"No."
"Neither do I, actually."
"But I do like mimosas."
"Wow. How gay."
"Buck, you like men too."
"I think peach bellinis are more of a bi thing."
"Fuck you."
"Fuck you too--let's pick up orange juice on the way back to my hotel."
Spike smiled. Inside, he felt a strange sensation in his heart, a bloom of warmth. It was odd.
He...had never felt this way about another man before.
----
By the time they got into the fresh-smelling hotel room, Buck and Spike were clawing at each other, hands going under shirts, feeling up muscles, and awkwardly falling down to the bed.
Somehow, Buck found himself straddling Spike.
"I mean...this material here is kinda like a mat. Why don't you show me some wrestling?"
"I dunno. I can be kinda rough, Buck." Spike flexed his bicep and gave Buck his signature wink.
"Unmf!" Buck said, longingly (and somewhat comically) feeling up Spike's boulder bicep. "That arm. But...rough, huh? Well, I can be rough too."
Spike wasn't sure how it happened, but somehow Buck had flipped him over--with grappling expertise.
The Sailorboy was both embarrassed and proud "Damn, boy! Strong. Like, unexpectedly."
"I get that a lot," Buck said, taking off his shirt. "Come on Sailor, you aren't gonna let a big heel like me end your streak, are ya?"
"Damn, abs! That chest. Holy shit, Buck, where were you hiding all that muscle?" Spike signed himself over to impulse. He'd been with muscle men, fat men, twinks, bears, wolves, otters--the whole zoo.
But right now? A wild buck was the hottest thing he'd ever set eyes on.
So began the hunt.
Spike sat up, facing Buck, head bent forward in mischievous challenge. Their foreheads touched as they circled each other on their knees, on top of the bedspread 'ring'.
"Oh, we're taking off our shirts now?" Spike said. Though far more sober, Spike nevertheless seized the moment and conjured up enough might to rip his t-shirt right off his chest.
Buck's jaw dropped.
"Gah, yep...there's that Sailor Strength."
They found themselves midway between grappling and wildly, passionate making out with each other. Spike knew his strength and didn't want to make Buck feel bad. Buck didn't want to risk looking weak in front of Spike. Somehow, they met in the middle, both men gaining ground, falling over each other, twisting each other in a fluid dance that was part wrestling match and part dance.
Naturally, Spike ended up on top, letting Buck's hand explore his abs, up to his chest. Their eyes met.
A decision was made.
Spike, for some reason, felt like he was losing his virginity all over again (and it had been awhile). "I mean, if we're going to be doing some wrestling, we might as well..." he tugged at his zipper.
"Pull a Gio?" Buck said, arching an eyebrow. Then, he got the message. "Oh...like...traditional....wrestling"
"Yeah...."
"Yeah."
"..."
Spike pulled down his pants and jock strap. Buck pulled down his jeans and boxer briefs.
Two silhouettes of two fit men in their twenties, in the nude, sizing each other up.
Spike's eyes went downward. "Holy...shit." He IS his dad's son.
"I was going to say the...same. It's not fair that you..." Buck looked into Spike's eyes. "Have both going on."
Spike blinked. "I was a pinup boy, remember?"
"...Spike."
"...Buck."
A mix between kissing and grappling renewed, limbs tangled with limbs, a struggle as much as an exploration.
Suddenly, in the midst of passion, Spike found his neck captured by Buck. "AGH, a guillotine?"
He was strong. Way stronger than Spike expected.
Way stronger than he should be...
Though Spike couldn't see the playful sadism in Buck's eyes, he felt the stubble on his chin against the curvature of his back as Buck said, both soft and cruelly, "Let's hear it. Or do you want to go out?"
Spike had no choice but to tap out.
He yanked his head back and looked at his crush, naked and godlike. Buck was just as shocked as him.
"You just made me tap, and you aren't even--" Spike cut himself off before he could misspeak, but by then it was too late. "Oh, sorry."
And you aren't even a magi.
Buck frowned, sighed, and looked away. "You know how to ruin a moment."
"Yeah," Spike said, deeply embarrassed. He scratched his head. "I know."
"You wouldn't want to date a guy with no glyph."
"That's dumb, Buck. I want...I want you."
The hazel-eyed hunk looked over at him. They found themselves wrapped up in each other again.
"Spike."
"You can call me 'Sammy' if you want."
"It's cute. You're cute. Can I touch you like this?"
"You can do that...and more."
Spike seized the moment, and put Buck back on his back, on top anew. "Ha! Got ya!"
"Oh yeah!? I got you noOooohhh fuck...."
"Yeah, I don't think we're wrestling in the traditional sense any more."
"Buck..."
"Spike...."
----
Somewhere in Japan, amidst a roar of boos from the disapproving crowd, Vahni Rage placed his red boot on the back on the unconscious, broken, and burned champion of the Okami federation. The ref raised Rage's arm to the skies in victory.
"Unhand me, peasant," Rage snarled tearing his arm away. He snatched the belt from the humble officials, and stepped out of the ring. "Now, be gracious to your new champion and fetch me a towel and some sparkling water. With lemon. Or else."
As Rage strutted by disapproving fans, some of them in tears, his burning, dark eyes set themselves upon a strange, pink-haired woman with a cute face, a tutu, and a cats ears and tail. Cognizant of the camera, Rage waited til he was backstage before he snapped his fingers at the PA's and dismissed them (after taking his water and towel of course).
He realized the small woman was carrying a microphone (with a giant heart and bow wrapped around the stem). She did not seem afraid. She smiled and closed her eyes. "Nyaaaa."
Without breaking eye contact, Rage sipped from his straw and sighed. "And who the hell are you?"
The little woman turned around and struck a pose (sparks of light flew from her pink hair, reminding Rage briefly of Iggy Astro) "Just everyone's favorite spellbreaking reporter for Okami, Nekole. Nyyaaaa! Rage-san, you just defeated the champ!"
Rage sighed. "Gods, why me." Unfortunately, though he wouldn't say it out loud, she was...cute.
Plus, if she wasn't afraid of him, she was either respectful or deeply stupid. "What business do you have with me..." Rage groaned. "Miss...Nekole."
Suddenly, Rage was surrounded by TV cameras (all of them capped with cat's ears).
"Gods...really?"
"Everyone wants to know, Mr. Rage! Now that you made it this far into the World Championships, the only logical opponent left for you take on would be White Tiger! And you know I'm a fan of a big, cute cat man, nyaaan! Can you confirm that you've got your eyes set on the champion of the GSA?"
Rage cocked his head to the side, scratching his beard in contemplation. It was a valid question. After all, Semyon (the snake) had informed him that this was to be Rage's next big booking. Not that Rage could object. The man paid his bills.
But...then again...do I even need the money at this point?
A dark impulse took hold. Fights like this always made him more clear headed, like he could see all of his possible paths laid out. And this time, his path wasn't going to be dictated by Semyon Grigorivich, or Firebird.
"You know, Nekole, my beauty, that is a rather good question." Courteous to those who showed him sincere admiration, and not toadying fear, Rage respectfully gestured for her to hand him the mic.
The starry-eyed cat girl obliged.
Grr. It's so...pink. "Right. Well, my loyal worshippers and stupid peasants alike, the last thing your favorite spellbreaker would want to do is disappointed you, or even worse, do something boring an expected. I am not a blood-starved hound meant to be tied on a short collar. Far from it. I'm a divine beast, sent to bring retribution to the weak and miserable. So, I'm a bit insulted you think a little...kitty cat like White Tiger would be challenge enough for the Warrior of Flame."
Watching on a TV set miles away in his chamber of the Russian palace, Grigorivich suddenly leaned in and turned up the volume on his TV set. "Oh? Rage, my sweet child...what do you think you're doing?"
Rage's handsome, cruel face stared directly down the camera. "No. A beast of the gods needs a more worthy opponent. And I hear there's a golden lion named Sailorboy Spike who's been making waves."
Smeyon clutched the TV remote harder. "Hmmm?"
On TV, Nekole gasped, excited. "Yes! The Sailor Stud has a growing fanbase here in Japan too! He's Kuma Kengo's roommate! We love him."
Rage nodded. "Then, how unfortunate that I will need to take him from you. Spike knows it's been a long time coming, this battle between us. It's destiny. Fate. Which is why I am going to set the terms of the fight--and I say that our arena shall be in my family's temple, in India." His sneer at the camera could have easily broken the lens.
Everyone gasped. "WHAT?"
In his chamber, Semyon snapped the remote control in two.
Rage wasn't done yet. Eyes glowing like embers, a fiery aura surrounded him. "Did you hear that, Spike? It's time I ended your little streak, and perhaps your career. I told you this once already, my little lion...you belong to me!"
