Rage's Red Hot Rumble

Ms. C: This is Ms. Clara--Your Lady of the Loud--the Mistress of Ceremonies--here backstage at the Atlas Arena in Upper Manhattan, about to interview our newest contender...Red Hot Johnny Hot Rod! 

The muscular man strutted, confident and cocky, from behind the velvet curtain. Ms. Clara raised an eyebrow. The spellbreaker's outfit was nearly blinding; a dazzling, ruby-red, besequinned vest. A matching bowtie clung to the oversexed--and over tanned--spellbreaker's meaty neck, and his bright, red briefs hung on for dear life as he gyrated and swayed his hips in poor Ms. Clara's direction. The curly haired hunk, with muscles oiled beyond necessary, posed with his hands on his hips and gave Ms. Clara, dressed in her signature pink, faux-fur coat, a bleached-white grin.

Hot Rod: Hey there muh honey, how's tricks?

Ms. C: The name's Ms. Clara, and I am not your honey!

Hot Rod: Aw shucks, pretty mama, don't be so uptight like that, I'm just here to have a gooooood tiiiime!

Rodney swivelled and gyrated his hips yet again, much to the poor commentator and interviewer's disgust. Still, Ms. Clara was the consummate professional. She'd dealt with creeps worse than this. 

Ms. C: Now, Johnny, you've been making a big name for yourself recently with your victory over Rai the Radiant from Okami spellbreaking in Japan.

Hot Rod: That's right! He showed me his big dragon, and well, The Rod showed him his! And it was much bigger! Turns out, that prissy boy from the Land of the Rising Sun couldn't stand the heat, so he had to get outta' my kitchen. I celebrated my stunning success by purchasing me a sweet--and sexyyyyy--little sports car that you'll be seeing tonight in my entrance. So all the pretty ones, look out for Johnny's ride. *blows kiss at camera*

Ms. C: Wow, the confidence, folks! Do you think you'll be able to carry that confidence into your match with Vahni Rage today? This is a man who not only dismantles opponents, but brands them with his cursemark. You don't seem intimidated!

Hot Rod: Well, that's because nothing--NOTHING--intimidates 'Red Hot' Johnny Hot Rod! *points to camera* Vahni Rage! You may think YOU'RE the big, swingin' dick around here, but there's only Rod bigger and badder than you. And that's me, baby!

Ms. C: It's notable that you're both fire magick wielders too!

Hot Rod: That's right! I'm so stupid hot, that I could burn up that muscle freak in an instant! Come on, Ms. C, touch Johnny's pecs. Feel the burn!

Ms. C: I'll...respectfully decline. Anything else you want to say before you go out there?

Hot Rod: Vahni, you think your chest is big? I'm gonna hypnotize you with these knockers here. And then I'm gonna knock you flat on your ass! Time these folks realize whose the hottest fire spellbreaker in the biz! You call yourself the god of the flames? HAH! Get ready to get on your knees and worship at the red hot altar, baby-cakes! 

Rodney thrusted his hips out like a two-bit stripper, giving the camera the eye as he did. All the while, Ms. Clara looked at him sideways until he vanished from view, the camera fading to black, ready to transition to the action in the auditorium...

Iggy Astro

Character Artwork by Phantom Tommy

Name: Ináci Vara

Age: 26

Birthday: October 11th

Height: 6'1"

Weight: 246 Lbs

Country of Representation: Brazil

Fighting Style: Kickboxing, Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, Capoeira

Glyph: Lux (Light Magick)

Power Finishers: Galactic Headbanger / Supernova Press

Submission Finisher: The Stardust Swing

Favorite Food: Vatapá. Spicy food.

Likes: Music, dancing, art, movie, bright colors, performing, their long hair, hairspray, skimpy outfits, stage makeup, humiliating their opponents.

Dislikes: Boors, basic/vapid men, critics, judgmental people, interrupted sleep schedules, bad lighting, authority.

A super galactic explosion of color and charisma–Iggy Astro is here to rock, roll, and crush JOBBERS into stardust!

Former lead singer of the Brazilian glam rock band, Vanity Paradise, Iggy is a true Renaissance person. Though their first love will always be music, they are a deadly martial artist and even more formidable spellbreaker who has managed to perfect the usage of a rare, typically non-violent glyph.

Iggy grew up in Rio De Janeiro, on the border between a middle class neighborhood and a favela. They are from a mixed background. Their father was a professor and their mother a freedom fighter who helped spark ‘‘A Revolução Encantada’, an uprising that took place during the breakdown of colonial powers and collapse of the Alban Empire. Iggy was born on the day when the government was ousted, and thus they were named (Inácio) for the ‘fire’ and ‘light’ of the revolution. Though they have no qualms being referred to by their given name, they prefer the more gender neutral 'Ináci'.

Some say the revolution did not gone far enough. Widespread poverty still existed long after, as did civil unrest. Ever watchful of reprisal or vengeance from opposing factions, Iggy’s parents were strict and overprotective, forbidding Iggy from the ‘corrupting influence’ of rock and roll music and spellbreaking. Both seemed the sweetest vices to a young, impressionable Inácio. Having witnessed magi subjected to all manner of torture and violence during the revolution, Iggy’s parents also forbade him from using his rare gift of light magick–which they feared could attract the influence from government officials or criminal enterprises. Iggy quite literally had to hide their light for some time, and developed deep-rooted psychological issues because of this.

Despite conflict, Iggy’s formative years were not all doom and gloom. An upbringing in fine arts, classical music, and dance served Iggy well. In fact, it was dance–as well as martial arts–that broadened Iggy’s horizons. 

After standing up to, and subsequently falling-out with their parents, Iggy was kicked out of home (though Iggy and their parents would later reconcile). He turned to a mix of bartending, busking, drag performance, escorting, and pit fighting to get by. Their charismatic personality attracted many friends and lovers, but it was hard for Iggy to wash away the stench of his ‘intellectual’ upbringing. Yet the freedom of their ‘second life’, as they called it, allowed Iggy to explore new facets of themselves–magick, sexuality, gender identity, romance, and the thrill of fighting! 

Iggy’s breakout success came from forming the band Vanity Paradise alongside their talented friends, many of whom came from disadvantaged backgrounds or were fellow children of the revolution. Vanity Paradise went on to tour Brazil for some time, though they found less success abroad. As the band began to drift apart, its members pursuing other passions, Iggy was at last financially secure enough to start investing in spellbreaking training, which they saw as an extension of their theatricality. With a combo of capoeira, brazilian jiu jitsu, and pro wrestling know-how, they were able to synthesize a fighting style just as colorful and unique as their personality. 

Perhaps a compulsion towards rebellion helped influence Iggy’s heelish nature, or it was was a deliberate artistic choice to invert expectations over light magick users being considered 'peaceful'. Far from being a violent sadist such as Vahni Rage, Iggy’s arrogance and superiority (as well as predation on ‘basic’ spellbreakers) fuels their dominance. They are known for grandstanding, light-show style entrances that outshine any opponent’s ringside walk-up. In battle, they use their light magic to creative–and painful affect–often blinding their opponents through devious moves. They can also create constructs of light, which disrupt magick and distract their opponents. 

Their ring style always turns heads–and not just from their guillotine chokes and head scissors either! Iggy is a fashionista, always sporting new entrance gear, which they usually rip away for a body reveal. Controversially, though certainly befitting their Brazilian heritage, Iggy prefers wearing thongs in battle–to the envy of other spellbreakers like Spike. A creature of excess, Iggy employs two highly theatrical power finishers in their arsenal. For lightweight opponents, their Galactic Headbanger–a modified Bulldog–smashes their opponents into a star-shaped light construct, knocking them out with force and bright light. Their more dramatic finisher, the Supernova Press, is a shooting star press that sees their light magick transforming them into a human comet with just as much impact!

Even though Iggy is well-versed in submission techniques from their BJJ background, their submission finisher, a pendulum swing variant called the Stardust Swing, is decidedly more pro wrestling oriented. After locking their opponent’s legs and arms around them in a painful ‘human wheel bower’, they smash their victim repeatedly into one of their star-shaped light constructs. Iggy Astro isn’t above a good sleeper (especially between their legs) either. Adding insult to injury, they can create ‘light graffiti’ with their magick, and they enjoy ‘autographing’ their unconscious opponents with humiliating messages that won’t come off for days! They’re especially fond of watching their defeated opponents have to spellbreak in subsequent matches with their autograph still glowing brightly on their bodies.

Iggy is in an open relationship with fellow GSA spellbreaker, El Amante Intóxico (who often goes by Victor among fellow trainees). On campus, they are known for their outlandish outfits, cutting wit, sharp tongue, humor, and generosity. When in residence at the GSA, Iggy sometimes performs rock concerts at the local drag bar, Bronco Buster’s Rainbow Saloon.

Iggy's third solo, studio album, with artwork featuring fellow Spellbreaker, Spike. 'StarSeduction' includes hits likes, 'Cosmic Horror Love, 'StarSeduction', 'Camel Clutch My Heart', 'Excessive Machine', and 'Rings of Uranus', many of which are currently charting.

One of several different approach's for Iggy's look. Originally, they were blonde. Their natural hair color is, in fact, a dark brown. Iggy's signature ring style is based off Carnaval colors. Before choosing 'Iggy Astro' as their professional nom de plume, they went through a few rejected stage names such as 'Electric Eddie' and 'Jace Supernova'.

"I can't resist some outfit variation. Surprisingly, some of my more modest designs, inspired by capoeira. The purple and red set pay homage to someone very special in my life."

Battle Quotes:

“You little boys ready to rumble with the rock and roll god!?”

“This song's called 'Tap, Nap, or Snap!' I think you're gonna like it...”

"What's wrong? Blinded by my glory?”

“Kiss it, loser!”

“You'll be seeing stars after this! Let's head bang!”

“Here, padrãozinho, have an autograph. What was your name again? Ah, doesn't matter...”

Chapter 4 - Making the Grade

Spike had survived the bear attack--but at what cost? 

The warmly decorated infirmary resembled more of a hunting lodge (without the mounted game, thank goodness) than a hospital wing for damaged spellbreakers. It was clean and sterile, but gently lit, with a hearth covered in family photos, medical degrees, and--as Spike observed--several wartime decorations. 

Mr. Wheeler, a red-headed bear of a man in his own right, scratched his beard and surveyed his patient. Spike hugged his thick legs into his equally thick chest in a gesture of resignation. 

"Looks like he didn't break your ribs," Nurse Wheeler grunted. "Your spirit, however, is an entirely different matter."

Spike tugged his shirt back over his head. "I kinda wish he had broken me," he sighed. "I deserved it for cussin' at him."

Mr. Wheeler was a jovial sort, a strange cross between a rugged logger and Father Yule. He eschewed the standard nurse scrubs for a white apron draped over his flannel shirt. 

"Aw, don't talk like that, kid," he laughed. "Listen. Spellbreakers bust each others chops all the time. And you kids always say dumb crap to each other." She shrugged. "Feelings get hurt. Bones get broken. Both can be mended with the right sorta treatment." He handed Spike a glass of water. "Here. Hydrate."

The dejected fighter graciously took the glass. "So, I should apologise again? But like...mean it?"

"Knowing Kengo, that'll be enough if you're sincere."

"Oh, he come in here a lot? Surprised to think a guy that big that gets injured so often."

"Hahaha." Mr. Wheeler shook his head, putting away his gauze and bandages. He'd wrapped Spike's ribs with kinesthesiology tape as a precaution. Spike accepted the measures, mostly because the wrappings made his pecs look even perkier than usual. 

"No, kiddo, him and I go way back. He did me a very big solid about a year and some change ago. I scouted him out for Colt." He nodded to the window, in the direction of the canteen. "He's really grown, that one. He used to be a hell of a lot shyer, if you can believe it. That one has his own battles to wage, but he's a pure soul. I have a feeling Colt knew exactly what he was doing pairing you two together."

"Hm." Spike got stretched out his legs, making sure to give his tendons some well needed movement after that brawl. Could have been worse. Kengo was a machine. It was a good thing he was such a sweetheart. 

Someday, I'll beat him fair and square , Spike vowed. "I shouldn't have taken out my anger on him just because I was losing." He shook his head, deeply angry that he'd lashed out. "I should have taken it out on myself."

"Er...no," Mr. Wheeler sighed. He'd dealt with some handfuls in his times, luckily, so this was far and away the most difficult patient he'd tended. "Look, kid. I'm prescribing you a hot meal and a slice of humble pie." He pointed to the cafeteria, a few yards away. "Go out there and be gracious, okay?"

He was correct. Self pity wasn't going to make this right. Funny though, Spike realized--he'd rather fight a million bears than have to confront someone and own up to his faults! Spellbreaking was easy. Responsibility? Not so much...

John Henry's Mettle - Part 4

"No, no, completely wrong!"

Colt's long, sweat-soaked hair fell over his handsome face. He leaned against the corner rope, panting heavily, perspiration dripping down his pectorals and abs, on to the floor. He spit angrily, wiped his mouth, and gave John Henry a wicked look.

"You're supposed to whip him into me so I can turn on the juice!" Colt said, circling his reluctant tag partner.

John Henry, in his signature overall singlet, folded his arms across his chest. He would not be dissuaded. The humid warehouse in which they trained, a rusty shack the locals so boldly called a 'professional spellbreaking gym' was an insult to them both. The heat wasn't helping either John Henry or Colt's mood either, of course. They'd been running drills and training for an hour and a half by now, trying to mold each other's move sets together, get a feel for how the other guy used their body and magick. 

So far, results were not looking great. 

As expected, Colt wasn't keen on feedback. John Henry provided it nonetheless. "And I say you're better using your bulk for most of the match, then using your powers at the end. You are a big boy, Colt, and you hit like a damn steam engine. But when it comes to magick, you're a glass cannon."

Colt reared back and looked at him like he was the most boring soul on Earth. "So, I wait until the end to turn on the lightning? Where's the spectacle in that, John?"

"It's not all about spectacle, cowboy! Hell, this match is gonna more about survival." John walked over to his partner--satisfied that he still had few inches of height (and more than a few pounds of muscle) on top of Colt. He clamped his hands down on Colt's traps-, with a half a mind to nerve claw him into compliance. Instead, he went for the gentle approach.

"Do you want your brains eaten?"

Colt looked into John's face before he removed his tag partner's grip. "Do you want that prize money?"

Damn fool has answer for everything! I should let those zombies eat him alive. "Colt," John Henry began with a prolonged sigh, "You're a good guy. I really love your spark. But have you ever taken a well-intended piece of suggestion from anybody in your whole damn life?"

The 'iron titan' expected another sassy remark. Instead, Colt leaned back against the ropes and looked towards the fanned window, at the bayou's hazy light. "...I just gotta make something of myself."

This was an odd, abrupt, introspective turn, Iron thought. This guy wasn't lying when he said he was like the storm--the climate inside his mind changed at least every two minutes. Still, John sensed he'd lowered his armor. Maybe the last few rounds knocking his skull around had actually worked, in a way.

"Why?" John Henry asked, taking a sip from a water jug tucked under the turnbuckle. 

"Lots of reasons," Colt whimpered. He wasn't making eye contact. 

"Goddess, Colton, I'm not here to be your therapist--I'm your tag partner."  John had met many other spellbreakers during his run, and if there's one thing he knew about them is that none of them were in anyway sane. Fame and adoration drove Colt. That much was certain. It was almost like the man was hungry for it. John Henry could only speculate what void inside his heart all of that glory filled.

"I think you got a lot of talent, cowboy. But you need to work with me here." Then, a lightbulb went off inside John Henry's head. "Hey, I have an idea. Let's nail these moves and then maybe you can...I dunno, teach me a thing or two about showmanship. Deal?"

The hamster on the wheel inside Colt's brain got to work. The handsome cowboy's face transformed from cold indignation to warm agreement. "Deal." And he shook on it too.

He'd be more likable if he was always this agreeable.

Training continued at a brisk pace, and Colt and John Henry both went through offenses and defenses with relatively little friction. After some civil arguing back and forth, and a longwinded dissertation from Colt on the importance and artistry of muscle flexing ("pec bounce to intimidate, bicep flex to get the crowd goin'"), the two men, soaked in their own sweat, sat on the bleachers.

Mr. Iron, for one, was glad they'd rented the place out for a few hours. Dealing with Colt was like talking to a whole party. Still, the fella had warmed to his spirit, despite the fact that he was a constant chatterbox. At least he wasn't arguing back anymore.

 "So," Colt began, "is that magi some kinda witch doctor guy?"

In his own head, maybe, John thought. "Look, you know this industry as well as I do. Managers love spellbreakers with gimmicks, even insulting ones. Clancy doesn't know a lick about voodoo, and a 'rougarou' is actually kind of like a type of werewolf, so I think he's just confused in his messaging."

Colt nodded, though John Henry wasn't sure if his words were going in one ear and out the other. "For me, the cowboy gimmick was easy. Hell, it was a part of my upbringing." Colt splashed his face with water, letting it run down his thick neck. John Henry hated to admit it, but he understood why Colt had so many female--and presumably male--fans. He was one damn fine specimen. 

"So what're you...y'know...supposed to be anyway?" Colt ask, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Oh he thinks he can tease me now, does he? John smiled. "The best gimmick in the whole, wide world. Myself. No, Colt, I could tell you all sorts of crazy shit managers have suggested. I get recommended the 'Tarzan' character a lot--not that I don't look good in animal print, mind--and that's probably the least insulting of the bunch. But one of the reasons I can tell you for a fact that I'm not getting ahead in this career is that...I refuse to play a character."

"Really? But you'd be great! I mean, maybe even as good as I am."

"Heh. I have a lot of pride. Let's just say, this line of work is friendlier to guys like you than it is to me. Besides, I have other aspirations."

"Such as?"

"Well, I'd like to find someone and settle down someday. Maybe start a business for myself. Don't get me wrong, spellbreaking is a hell of a lot of fun." John looked to the ring, the warehouse, and pictured a million different ways he'd make it better, cleaner, modern, and more comfortable for younger spellbreakers. "I'd probably be better teaching it than doing it."

"You sound like you know what you want." Colt nodded and gave his knew buddy a gentle cuff on his enormous arm. "Hey, let's throw a few back tonight. Whaddya say?"

The thought of Colt mixed with alcohol set off John Henry's fight or flight instincts. But he also recognized that they'd trained enough, and any more would just drain them for tomorrow night's match. There was only so much they could do in one afternoon.

"Okay, Colt. You got it. But not Sandra's bar, and no more brawls! Hey, don't look so disappointed..."

Chapter 2: Welcome to the GSA - PART 2

“Well, so much for food…”

The sign hanging on the cafeteria doorway was certain enough. “CLOSED” , with no indication when it would open again. This left Spike and Rosa standing outside, looking forlornly through the windows at two big rows of tables and seats that wouldn’t be occupied again til sundown.

Rosa’s stomach rumbled, but she tried to play it off with a pretend cough. “Lucinda is our main chef and she well…sort of just serves food when she feels like it.”

Spike’s stomach mimicked his companion’s—he had been so anxious on the drive over that he hadn’t had a bite to eat all day. Now that he was more relaxed, his stomach was enacting vengeance. “I really could go for something fried. Or something sweet. Or both.”

“Yeah…her churros are legendary. Everyone fights each other to get them. She used to sell them outside a lot of spellbreaking events before she caught Colt’s eye. She was so proud of her work, and her food speaks for itself, that he offered her employment on the spot.”

The spellbreaker pressed her back against the glass door and looked out into the prairies. “Colt has a real eye for talent. He picks good people. I mean, not just people who are good at what they do, but kind people. Well, kind and…I guess, sort of broken? I think he likes taking in strays.”

“I understand,” Spike said, mirroring her. He still hadn’t fully accepted that his childhood hero had chosen him to train and work for this federation. “Wow, what a guy. Hey, not to be random, but are you the only lady spellbreaker here?”

“No,” Rosa said with a laugh. “A lot of the other girls are on the road right now, actually. You’ll meet Calypso at training since she’s a rookie like us. Us girls keep ourselves busy. But I…still have a lot to learn.”

“And the size of all these hunks doesn’t intimidate you?” Spike hoped he wasn’t prying too much.

Rosa laughed, letting him know he hadn’t crossed a line. “Are you kidding? They’re all big puppy dogs. Besides, my spellcrafting can put them in their place easily.” Her eyes flickered with wicked intent. “I love beating up big, strong, men and making them feel utterly helpless.”

Spike blinked, noting the unusual sensation in his pants. Did…did my sexuality just expand?

“Let’s get your room key,” Rosa suggested—perhaps a ploy to distract them both from their increasing hunger. “Kengo should have calmed down by the time we’re back.”

The last building on their tour, besides Colt’s farmhouse (off-limits, of course) was a converted barn at the back of the property. It was a fair distance away. Spike had no issues with walking, but the heat combined with hunger was proving a very difficult tag team. He hoped the tour would be over soon and he could get some alone time (preferably with a burrito).

Spike approached the office door, flanked with two GSA show banners from previous exhibitions. He admired the design work ad detail—there was something explosive and dynamic about the GSA logo art, the color and bold lines.

“This where Colt works?” Spike asked his tour guide.

“Yeah. He keeps a pretty low profile, always running the show from behind the scenes.” She shrugged. “Still, I wouldn’t be afraid to ask him anything. He’s really invested in people’s comfort. I know he looks really intimidating, but he’s the biggest puppy dog of them—”

Her words were cut off by a sudden and loud peel of thunder. Spike and Rose nearly jumped out of their socks. Spike looked up at the sky, thinking he’d just misheard the clash of distant farming equipment (they were near an active ranch after all), but indeed, the sky had turned from hazy blue to rapid gray, with storm clouds blossoming where it had been clear only seconds ago. Even the atmospheric pressure shifted.

Spike held out his hand, anticipating the kiss of raindrops. “Um…the weather report didn’t call for rain, did it?”

“Oh no,” Rosa winced. “Maybe we should—”

Again, she was cut off mid-sentence by an intrusive, loud sound—this one more human. Spike and Rosa whipped their heads to the door, mistaking oncoming footsteps for thunder. Colt, 270 pounds of tempestuous fury, emerged from his offices in a rage.

“GODDESS DAMN IT!” he shouted, in time with another thunder clap. Lighting flashed behind his eyes. “That cheap bastard Grigorivich wants to charge me a damn booking fee for--” He stopped himself, noticing his two proteges staring slack jawed right at him. “Oh,” he started, remorsefully removing his cowboy hat and running a hand through his long, messy hair. “It’s you two.”

Spike’s eyes went to Colt’s button up shirt—even his business casual attire couldn’t conceal so much muscle. It wasn’t that Spike was deliberately staing at his chest either, but it was very hard for the fledgling spellbreaker to meet his master’s eyes.

“Um…hi, Mr. Tamberly.”

The big boss looked down at his charge, and then up at the sky, frowning at the byproduct of his runaway emotions. He sucked his teeth, snapped his fingers, and the clouds dissipated, as if afraid of angering their own conjurer. Blue skies resumed.

“Colt is just fine,” the boss man said affably. He ran his hand through his hair again, to pat down the static that had teased a few strands away from their proper place. “Looks like I got a bit hot under the collar there. It’s nice to officially welcome you to our ranch, son.”

Son. Spike’s thoughts went to a much more private place as he took Colt’s handshake. “It’s ok,” he said. A not-entirely-unpleasant sensation, the gentle numbing from a tapering electrical current, danced across Spike’s hand. “Wow, my hand is really prickly.”

“Sorry about that,” Colt laughed. Spike could see what Rosa meant about him being nothing but a big puppy. And lucky for Spike, he liked big dogs. “Ah, you’re with Rosa, so you must be in good hands. I’d trust her with anything. Only spellbreaker with half a damn brain here.”

Now it was her turn to blush. “Oh, Colt, you sweet talker.”

There was a constant excitement and energy in Colt’s voice, like a carnival barker or rodeo announcer on their day off. To Spike, this was the epitome of masculinity—strong, secure, kind, fatherly, and respectful to just about everyone. Spike had chosen the right hero.

Colt kicked the dirt with his cowboy boot, looking somewhat impatient. “I’d stay and chew the fat, Spike, but I’m a busy man and I gotta…” he sighed. Everything he did was just a bit exaggerated and cartoonish, not at all like the steely-eyed warrior he was in the ring. “I gotta go sort some ornery bastards out. One way or the other. Goddess wept, this better not put me on the sauce again. Rosa?”

She stood at attention, a wilful soldier. “Yes, sir?”

“Spike’s keys just arrived and should be on my desk. At least, I think I put them there, I don’t know—I’m seeing red and can’t think straight right now. Anyway, just have him sign some paperwork—mostly it’s so you can’t sue us if I break your back, that sort of thing.” He winked, but Spike wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. “You settle in,” he said, slapping his back and nearly breaking his spine in the process. “Training starts tomorrow, and I am not going to go easy on you.”

His back smarting, Spike couldn’t help but venture with a slightly flirtatious, “I would have it no other way.” He was mortified as soon as he said it. Hitting on his childhood hero! Was this not a cardinal sin of spellbreaking?

Fortunately, Colt was amused. “Well, we’ll see about that.” With that, he proceeded down the dirt path with all his cowboy swagger in tow.

Perhaps Spike’s thoughts at watching the hunky, older spellbreaker saunter off into the sunset were more transparent than they appeared. Rosa knocked him on the back, right where Colt had playfully hit him—but the pain was not as well-received. “Should I get a bucket for your drool?”

Spike wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Not just my drool.”

“Gross!” Thankfully, she couldn’t help but crack a wry smile. She nodded for him to get his ass into the converted barn. “Let’s get this over with it and get you fed, Romeo.”

The open office space was partitioned into a few different cubicles. Despite its modern overhaul, the smell of old wood was welcoming and nice. Spike felt at peace here. Or maybe the electric current Colt had inadvertently run through him was doing its work on his brain.

“I’ll go grab your papers,” Rosa said, pointing to one of the cubicles. “Stay here. Don’t wander off.”

Naturally, Spike did nothing of the sort. He might as well have been one of Colt’s inadvertently conjured clouds, high in the sky and electrified. With a spring in his step, and mischief on the mind, Spike waited for Rosa to vanish from view before he decided to get a peak behind the scenes of the GSA.

He poked his around a cubicle, hoping to catch sight of the merch room, or some other pile of shiny things, when he accidentally locked eyes with a young man stationed at a drawing desk only several feet away. He wore glasses, had a day’s worth of scruff on his face, and was somewhat built. Granted, he didn’t cut the same figure as the other giants roaming the ranch, and by Spike’s estimate, wasn’t as muscular as he was—but still…not at all bad to look at.

It was too late for Spike to duck out and pretend he hadn’t been wandering where he shouldn’t, so he flashed the guy an innocent grin. He looked a few years older than him, but not by much. “Oh, sorry.”

“You’re fine,” the man said, sounding both gentle and somewhat annoyed. “Can…I help you?”

Spike’s eyes darted about the room. Some posters and banners on the wall. And behind the man’s desk, a whole shelf meticulously lined with different kinds of house plants, positioned, and angled towards the sunlight streaming through the barn window. A fluffy Maine coon cat, a miniature lion, slept lazily on the edge of the shelf.

“Me?” Spike shrugged. “Nah, I’m just looking around.” He allowed himself into the room. “Were you…busy?”

“Yes,” the man said, pencil in hand, looking down at his work. “Very.” He said this with a smile, and Spike took that—and the tone of his voice—as a playful invitation.

What a cutie! Dark hair. Right amount of stubble. Beautiful eyes. Not a beefcake at first glance, but handsome in a familiar way that Spike had not yet put his finger. He wore a plaid flannel over a plain blue shirt, a cross between urban and country. Though seated, Spike gauged his height—tall enough.

Spike looked down at the sketch—it was a line-up for an upcoming GSA show, with all the spellbreakers illustrated in dynamic poses. Spike recognized a few faces.

“Wow, those are amazing!”

“Thanks.” The young man said, smiling shyly. He moved his head. A brushed-over lock of his hair, a charming ‘swoop’ across of his brow, moved with him. “I’m sorta in charge of all the fliers, media, copy, that sort of thing.” He gestured to the poster behind him. Colt, surrounding by electricity, against a dragon-masked spellbreaker wrapped in flame. Spike could almost feel the heat and intensity radiating off the advert—no, work of art.

“You did this?” Spike marvelled. He would have gladly purchased the poster for his room. “Wow! It looks like a movie poster.”

“Aw, shucks, you’re too kind.” The man spoke with a subtle twang, so Spike took him for a local boy. Though he was strong enough, he didn’t stand out as a spell breaker. “You really like that one?” He pointed, specifically, to Colt. “He said I made him look too much like a super hero.”

“Oh, but isn’t he just?” Spike said, glowing with admiration. “The Cowboy King is a super hero as far as I’m concerned. I can’t believe I get to train under him.”

The man smiled, but his eyes narrowed—either in mild embarrassment or profound disbelief “You’re really a Colt fan, eh?”

“Yeah, he’s an absolute stud, don’t you think?” Spike frowned. He was getting ahead of himself. “Ah, too bad he’s not gay.”

“Well—”

“I mean, he’s like a god on Earth! That long hair. Cold, green eyes. Those…muscles.”

And, as if he had somehow summoned the god into being, Colt re-appeared at the doorway with only a brief knock to announcer himself. Spike froze to the spot and hoped he hadn’t overheard.

“Did I leave the damn contract in here?” Colt asked, putting Spike’s fears to rest at once—this man was entirely too distracted to have heard anything. “I swear if my head weren’t attached to my damn neck…”

In real time, Spike watched Colt’s attention span shift yet again as he bounded over to the illustrator’s desk “Oh, let me see that, Buck.”

The young man nodded, but Spike—who wasn’t the best at paying attention himself—noticed his back straightened up. “What do you think?” he said.

The gentleman placed his fingers to his chin and examined the draft in the same way a jeweller would inspect a diamond for flaws. “Hm. Well, it’s fine, I guess. Maybe a bit bolder line there. It definitely needs some work still.” He sounded business-like and unimpressed.

Spike saw the dark-haired man’s mouth twitch. “Er…thanks.”

Once again, Colt’s mind jumped the track. He pulled his Stetson off his head and scratched his hair in befuddlement, making for the exit. “Damn it, where’s the damn contract? Hey, Rosa, darlin’, could you give a big, stupid man a little help—”

They say you should never meet your heroes, Spike thought, but now he liked Colt for different reasons. He was still a god of thunder, just a god of thunder with attention span issues, and apparently not one to sugar-coat their critiques when it came to art.

Suddenly invested in getting this man on his side, Spike spoke candidly. “I will say, he is kinda cold for someone so damn hot, eh?”

“Yep. Pa can be like that.”

“Pa? No, I mean Colt.”

“He’s…my daddy.”

“Oh honey, same.”

“No, he’s actually my father.” The man laughed and extended his hand. “Buck Tamberly. Not an ounce of magick to my name, but when it comes to art, I’m your guy.”

Spike blinked, beyond embarrassed. “Oh…I’m…” I’m about to faint or throw up.

Lucky for him, he didn’t need to live with his faux pas. Rosa burst through the open door. “Spike, when I said don’t wander off I meant it. Stop bothering Buck!”

Suddenly, the artist’s whole demeanour shifted, from nonchalant to a certain look that Spike knew all too well—the posture and tone of the flirt. “Well, now, this is a blessing. Two beautiful strangers came to visit me at my work.”

But, ‘like father like son’, Buck’s expression shifted rapidly as he lurched down in his chair with a sulk (one that Spike still found quite charming). “And you’re lucky you’re both cute, or I’d be pissed. Pa is playing critic again and it’s made me sore.”

Rosa sucked her teeth, nodding empathetically. “Yeah. Just do your best, Bucky. He likes your work. We all do.”

“Well, he certainly shows it in a funny way, now, don’t he?”

Rosa sighed. Spike sensed they’d been down this road before. The was an invisible energy between them, something understated. A mutual attraction, perhaps? His head was spinning so quickly, that he failed to realize that he himself had been included in Buck’s ‘cute strangers’ lines.

“Hey,” Rosa called out, snapping him out of his thoughts with the metallic jingle of a pair of keys. “Let’s leave the tortured artist alone. See you around, Buck.”

“See ya.” Buck nodded. “Nice meeting you, Spike. And don’t worry, your face really does look cute when it’s all red like that.” He winked, and Spike felt his heart melt. Right then and there, he knew that of all the spellbreakers in the joint, it was the one who wasn’t a spellbreaker that was going to be the best sort of problem for him.

Spike said nothing til they were outside, well out of ear shot. And, after Spike had looked both ways just to make sure, he blurted out, “COLT HAS A SON!?”

Rosa stared at him, blankly, before she forced his keys and the waiver into his trembling, sweaty hands. “Oh, sweetie, where to begin? Colt—bless his muscular heart—has a lot in common with the Greek god, Zeus. They’re both in charge of a pantheon of heroes. They like to throw lightning bolts. And they are both notorious cads.”

That didn’t surprise Spike in the slightest. Seems we have more in common than I thought. But it had never once occurred to Spike that his idol had born a son. The Son of Colt! An heir to a whole legacy of spellbreaking excellence, and not once had Spike ever heard of him before! Of course, nature being cruel and fickle, the boy didn’t have a glyph. How crazy to think that while Spike was watching Colt on TV growing up, his boy was probably watching his dad kick some ass. And to think, Buck had chosen to help his dad’s business out instead of becoming an athlete himself. It was almost too adorable to bear.

Spike sighed. “I’ve never had so many crushes in one day, Rosa. What do I do?”

The girl indulged him. “I don’t blame you. This place is a beefcake buffet. But take it from me—don’t shit where you eat.”

“Yeah, my friend John Henry said the same thing actually.”

Rosa’s eyes widened. “Mr. Iron? Oh, he’s the best teacher! I hope he comes back soon. Anyways, it’s not worth it getting tangled up with these guys. The life of a spellbreaker is far from stable. I should know.”

With much weighing on his mind, Spike followed Rosa back to the dorms. The sun was lower in the sky now, and no doubt the dining hall would open soon. Maybe Kengo could be convinced to get a meal, and they could finally break the ice (thankfully, clothed).

As Spike said his goodbyes and went to test his keys, Rosa tugged his wrist.

“Wait a second, princess,” she said, rummaging around in her pocket. “I have something for you. It’s dumb, okay, but Colt said I had to be welcoming. So, I thought—hey, why not…”

She handed him a small, pink, velvet pouch—charming enough on its own. Spike stared at it dumbly, like a puppy with a new chew toy before he realized he should open it. Inside the pouch was a small bottle with a spray nozzle—like one of the samples of colognes Spike used to steal at the department stores back in the day.

He pressed his nose to the bottle. It was inviting smell that was sweet but musky and absolutely perfect for him.

“I…like to make things,” Rosa said, demuring. “I actually design most of the spellbreaking gear around here.”

“You make the gear?” Spike said, overjoyed and impressed. He rubbed the scent on his wrists.

It smelled like a guy he’d want to make out with. I am the guy I want to make out with.

Rosa nodded. “By the way, I saw your trunks from your show back in New York. Very cute nautical pattern—if not amateur stitching. Still good tase. I could probably make you an upgrade at some point.”

Spike was genuinely touched. “You’re…really giving this to me?”

Rosa nodded—and was that just a hint of bashfulness? “Yeah. Gear. Candles. Perfumes. Teas. That sort of thing. Buck and I tend to a garden around back—it’s how we destress. Plants are my hobby, mostly because of my glyph.”

“It smells amazing!”

“Well, the men around here hardly wear deodorant, so I’ve started making a point to fix that.” She laughed. “Anyways, I’m supposed to be training with Victor, so I gotta go. Maybe I’ll see you at dinner?”

“Oh.” Spike said. He looked at the door to the dorm hall. “So…what do I do now?”

“Anything you want,” Rosa said. She turned and walked back towards the fitness center. “Just don’t break anything, you little idiot. Equipment. Bones. Hearts. Yourself. Oh, and drills start at 6 AM by the way, so I suggest you hit the bed early.”

The twilight took her. Spike was left to digest the past few hours of his life.

“…Why does it always have to be 6 AM,” he grumbled. Yet still his mind kept turning back to one topic, and one topic only.

“So, Colt has a son, eh? Hmmm…”

Next Chapter!

Mr. Iron

                                                                                                                                                                                        Character Artwork by Garo

Given Name: John Henry Iron

Age: Unknown (though appears to be in his late forties) 

Birthday: September 17th

Height: 6’7”

Weight: 278 Lbs

Country of Representation: U.S.A.

Fighting Style: Traditional Grappling, Power Moves

Glyph: Laurion (Mineral and Metal Magick)

Power Finisher: The Runaway Train

Submission Finisher: The Iron Claw

Favorite Food: His wife’s cooking

Likes: Science, metallurgy, hard work, engineering, travel, live music, whisky, his family, training rookies, activism, Spellbreaking, folklore, history, trainspotting, unions, running a business. 

Dislikes: Ignorant people, those who abuse power, being late, people who are late, laziness, those who take advantage of others, pollution, Firebird Pro Spellbreaking.

'The Iron TItan' is ready to show these young upstarts HE'S STILL the real king of the ring! There’s no avoiding this runaway train!

Mr. Iron (or just John Henry to his friends) is as a towering colossus of a man, who can bend steel beams with either brawn or magick. Renowned in the industry as one of the great veterans, he was once both rival and friend to other champs like Colt the Bolt. He is now semi-retired, preferring to spellbreak for smaller federations and local shows, as he prefers the lack of pretension. He enjoys working with younger and eager spellbreakers.

Mr. Iron was one of the bigger names on the East Coast and southern spellbreaking circuits before he settled down to start both a family and business in Brooklyn. It is long rumored that it was none other than Mr. Iron who convinced Colt the Bolt to get out of the ring while the business was still kind to him. Though the two fighters frequently clashed, they also tag teamed several times throughout their illustrious careers, and are still close friends and confidants. He is considered one of the best spellbreaking teachers in the business, but prefers to 'keep it local', only working with the promoter and manager Varla Montes. The shadow sorceress and former showgirl–famously difficult to work with–has often said that she would only trust John Henry with her business. As such, he has a sterling reputation.

Despite his good nature and storied career, Iron’s background and early beginnings are a mystery, proving something of a tantalizing legend among spellbreaking enthusiasts. Though he is open and friendly to a fault, J.H. keeps his cards close to his chest and even his closest associates are never quite sure of his next moves. The world of spellbreaking has seen many heroes from tall tales and legends pass through the ranks, and considerable debate rages as to whether or not Mr. Iron is really the folkloric John Henry from legend. He has always played candid and coy about his namesake, preferring to let the mystery serve as publicity. Some fans of his even speculate he's the son of the legend--i.e. that J.H. is, in fact, a ‘Junior’! 

Beyond this, John Henry has connections with many top-ranking magi all over the world, and keeps his ear close to the ground, listening for any meddling into the arcane. Of all the spellbreakers based in the United States, he is the most observant of Firebird’s dubious dealings–to the point that there are actually rumors he may be a spy for the US government. This, however, is not true–as J.H. has an implicit distrust of authority. Whatever his dealings may be, they are done on his own terms.

Mr. Iron is a renaissance man. In addition to spellbreaking, he has worked as an engineer and a scientist with a proficiency in metallurgy. He also has a few patents to his name, and has written a book on practical uses of metal-based magick. John Henry’s glyph, ‘Laurion’, grants him the ability to turn his body into an alloy like steel for a short time. He can even cast off the metal generated from his body and reshape it, using it as a projectile. As he is primarily a grappler when resorting to physical combat, he would use these metal missiles to bridge the gap between him and his opponents. A unique side-effect of his body undergoing repeat mineral composition shifts over the years, Mr. Iron's eyes have permanently changed color to a golden-citrine hue.

In the ring, Iron’s raw strength is unparalleled. He favors power moves and grappling, able to toss grown men around with ease. His Runaway Train clothesline–enhanced by his metal arm–has put even the most seasoned spellbreakers out of commission for weeks! His Iron Claw–a nerve claw on the head–is a deadly submission hold that has quite literally crushed his opponent’s skulls in the past! Though rarely employed, he has an alternate move called 'The Garbage Compactor', wherein he stuns his opponents with a 'most muscular' flex--and then uses his metal arms to smash his opponents into his enormous chest, completely smothering them. Allegedly, this move was Colt's idea back in the day...

An alternate color scheme for Mr. Iron. John Henry doesn't preen as much as the other guys, but he's been known to wear more revealing gear on occasion (mostly at Colt's suggestion...)

Mr. Iron rocking some alternate gear.

Mr. Iron's traditional gear is a nod to his railway background. He used the cog/gear button to give himself a bit of flair. A humble guy, he keeps it simple, which is why his tag teaming with Colt back in the day was such an amusing contrast!

Mr. Iron, an American Hero!

Battle Quotes:

“Class is in session--and teach is gonna knock you out!”

“Hard as steel!”

“Eyes up here, sailor!”

“Muscles made of metal! I caught you lookin'.”

“Tied to the tracks; no escape!”

“And that's how you spellbreak, son!”