The Prince and His Knights! Part 1: Locker Room Leaders

Spellbreaking had long since become an international sensation across the world, with fans on every continent (including Antarctica), and fighters from across the Seven Seas. The basic setup was always the same: skilled magi fighters combining muscle and magick to defeat their foes.

Still, every corner of the globe did the sport differently. In Japan, for example–dominated by the flashy and illustrious Okami federation–spirit summoning battlers employed spirits and demons in-ring, adding even more supernatural hijinx to the spectacle. Australia's scant few spellbreaker leagues, though humble, focused on campy blends of horror and comedy, typically employing magi whose powers had deformed them or left them ostracized by society, giving them a chance to turn their curses into blessings. Then, you had the Texas-American connection of leagues, mostly dominated by the GSA, featuring attractive, athletic heroes and villains whose good looks and muscle mastery were half the fun.

But the Mexicans did it differently (and arguably, bigger and better). Combining the principles of lucha libre, masked fighters (identities kept guarded secrets from even their closest friends) took to the ring in 3-on-3 brawls, with three rounds on the line. In these sacred arenas, heroes and villains alike–or tecnicos and rudos–combined high-flying, high-octane magical actions with acrobatic might.

Still, many of those spellbreakers south of the border hadn't yet crossed over into the northern, save for one heroic hunk–El Amante Intoxico. Having dropped out of the World Championships for personal reasons (though accolades had never been the aim of the ‘Scorpion of Seduction’s anyway), the muscle man in the purple trunks (and constantly visible, red thong line) decided to dip down to Mexico City and put on a hometown show just for fun. His name, of course, was a huge draw.

Though many champs found their egos enlarging with their victories, El Amante was a constant delight and warm presence in the locker room. It helped that his innate abilities compelled affection. It also helped that he was a giant man built of out solid muscle. Led by the famed veteran spellbreaker-turned-manager, Calavera Escarlata, all eyes turned to the strapping long-haired former male stripper as he strutted behind the colorful vet in the ever-burning skull mask.

“Tonight is going to be quite the show!” the fire-mage said, grandly, as led El Amante to a more private section. “I have decided the theme for your match will be Three Generations of Warriors.”

Curious, and ever the 'team player', El Amante scratched his head (or mask, rather). “Where do I fall into the equation, handsome skull? Am I the old guy?”

“‘Fraid that would be me…”

El Amante turned towards the gruff, yet noble, voice. A large man with colorful trunks, green cape, and a head-piece decked out with feathers, smiled in his direction. His arms were folded across his broad chest; a typical lucha libre heroic pose; yet this hunk was maskless. He was a daddy to the extreme–graying at the temples, bearded, with kind and heroic eyes. A masked fighter of such esteem was rare in these parts. Usually, maskless fighters had been put there without choice, their masks torn cruelly from their face by rudos, or lost in mask-on-the-line matches.

However, Cuauhtémoc was not just ANY spellbreaker. He was the 'Feathered Dragon', a man of the people who had shunned hiding his face to get closer to his loyal subjects. A king if there ever was one, he had even taken his name from the last Aztec Emperor. El Amante was truly in the presence of royalty.

As a consummate professional, the Warrior of Love shook the gentleman’s hand (and what a firm handshake it was). “I am Victor. It is an honor, my liege.”

The giant man’s smile was infectious. “Just call me Temo. Everyone else does. It has been awhile since I’ve ruled a ring. I suppose you will need to help make sure I do not throw out my back.” He winked.

Inside, El Amante squealed. Ahhh he’s so humble and handsome! I think I’m in love all over again!

“So,” Victor started, “that must mean I am the young guy, eh, Calavera?”

“Actually,” Calavera said. “You are the middle ‘brother’ of the bunch.” He looked down at his watch. “Unfortunately, these young ones are never on time.”

El Amante tapped his finger to his chin. “I wonder who it could be. Also–”

Suddenly, a blur of motion caught El Amante’s attention. He trained his eyes on the shadows of the locker room, scanning the area. The chicken-headed El Pollo grabbed an avocado soda from the vending machine and cocked his head at his peer. "Bagawk?"

"No, Pollito, not you. Did you see something just now?"

The chicken wrestler blinked. "Bawk?"

"No, I haven't touched a drop today. Hmm. Perhaps I…am seeing things?”

Temo looked over his shoulder, at the bench. He picked up the small object, a black card with a pink domino mask on the front. “What's this thing”

Something darted behind Temo, causing his cape to billow.

El Amante narrowed his eyes. Then, he sighed. “Don’t tell me…”

“AH HAAAA!”

The hidden spellbreaker jumped down from the lockers. Clad in leather chaps around his waist, and sporting a hot pink bandana, the mischievous, masked menace decked out in pink and grenn landed on his boots, hands on hips.

After a brief, awkward pause, his chaps fell around his ankles. El Amante, Calavera, and Temo blinked silently.

 “Gahh!” The bumbling fighter bent over and began to disentangle himself (with great difficulty). “I…uhh….meant to do that.” He coughed and resumed his heroic stance. “Yes! It is ME! Feast your eyes on the PINK BANDITO!”

Ambient trumpets and guitars from nowhere in particular blared a sexy little riff.

Nobody in the room was amused.

“Banditooo!” El Amante blurted out, groaning. He was glad he was wearing a mask, or he’d be blushing in embarrassment in front of two spellbreaking legends. “You're the third guy? But…you aren’t ring ready, mi amor.”

“Ahhh,” the Pink Bandito started, dropping to his knee and taking his coach’s hand in his, giving it a kiss, “But the Pink Bandito is ALWAYS ready, my handsome coach.”

El Amante grunted. “First of all, I do the hand-kiss thing around here. We cannot have two overly-romantic himbos in this fed.”

Upon spying the other hunk in the room, Bandito gasped and collapsed onto his knees in front of the bemused Cuauhtémoc, his hands extended in a declaration of love. “And…and… this tasty piece of pan dolce can only be, my King, Cuauhtémoc!”

“Try that kiss with me, chico, and you’ll be pulling back a bloody stump.” Then, looking into Bandito’s wet, trembling eyes, the big man sighed. “Fine. If it makes you happy..."

“The Pink Bandito ALWAYS asks for consent,” the little scamp said, kissing his superior’s hand. Finally, he rose, bowing profusely at Calavera. “Gentleman, I have come to lend my MORAL SUPPORT, and not my beautiful, handsome muscles!”

Unnecessary exclamation aside, he began to do an impromptu, seductive cha-cha.

“No kiss for me, Bandito,” Calavera laughed. Fortunately for the wet-behind-the ears luchador, the seasoned vet found his antics highly entertaining.

“Not if I don’t want my bandit lips to burn!”

Temo rolled his eyes. “Kid, your dance moves are just as good as your Spanish.”

“Thanks!”

“That wasn’t a compliment…”

“But it is as I said,” the broad shouldered and blue-eyed fighter said, with a dramatic flourish. “Much like you, teacher, I have returned to my roots to support you and my friend in your fantastic–and sexy–endeavors.”

El Amante scratched his head. “Roots? Aren’t you from Connecticut?”

“Ah! The Pink Bandito’s origin is shrouded in mysteryyyyyy! However, the roots of my fighting in a mask begin here in Mexico City.” He pointed to Temo. “You, of course, are the King in this sexy ensemble of tres enchiladas.” He then fawned over at his teacher. “And you, of course, are the Warrior of Love–which makes you the knight protector! The only thing you are missing, naturally, is…” he wiggled his eyebrows, and gestured stage-left. “A prince.”

He waited. Everyone else waited.

Still stuck in his pose, Bandito coughed. “I said...A Prince!”

"Oh, is that my queue?"

A small, but built fighter jumped into the room, and flexed. He then pointed to Bandito. “And I guess every royal court needs a jester too! Hello everyone! It’s me, Prince Lazuli. Tiny, tough, and ready to rumble with some rudos!” Eyes sparkling, and beautiful long hair flowing behind their attractive mask, Lazuli held out his hand and conjured up a dazzling, shard of blue stone, which burst into starry light.

While Bandito was much too starry eyed to speak, El Amante surveyed the young man, up and down, as did Temo. “Ah, right, Prince Lazuli. You’re the new guy, huh?”

“The Prince is an up-and-comer,” Calavera explained patiently. “I thought you three would make a perfect trio--the past, the present, and future of masked spellbreaking!”

“Past,” Temo scoffed, benevolently. “You really do make me sound like yesterday’s news.” He puffed out his chest and walked the room, conjuring up a subtle, cool breeze to ruffle his feathers and cape. “You young guns are 'all talk' anyway. You want to impress me? Show me how you fight tonight.” He stopped in front of Lazuli, who maintained eye contact. “And you. You are…small.”

“And strong!” Lazuli shot back, confidently. He flashed his superior a big, nervous grin. "Hehehe...?"

“Yes,” El Amante said, already sensing the rising tension in the room. He subtly cooled it down by radiating his own aura of calm, channelling his own magic of emotional influence. “Anybody with the right gifts can be a spellbreaker. Lazuli…” He dropped to his knee and extended his hand, in a much more smoother (and welcome) gesture as Bandito had made previously. “Indeed, my handsome prince, I shall be your knight tonight.”

Lazuli blushed. He was not immune to El Amante’s charms. “Wow. You are…very muscular, huh? But, nice as it is, I don’t need a knight to kick ass. I'll show you what I'm made of. And that's solid rock.”

“Just make sure it’s not us trying to protect you the whole time,” Temo said, gruffly. “You cocky, young studs always like to show off and end up getting your butts handed to you. Seen it happen tons of times before.”

Bandito jumped to his friend’s defense. “It will be the Prince who will be the one handing out the butts tonight, my King! Many butts!”

El Amante shook his head, unsure of whether Bandito’s Spanish was off, or if he was just being…well…Bandito.

Calavera clapped his hands, inadvertently creating a burst of flame with the percussion. “Okay, boys, enough introductions. The fight is in 15. You go out there and make sure those villains remember masked spellbreaking’s royal family!”

To Be Continued

Epilogue: Sunday Night Spellbreakers

Sometime...in the distant future of 1985.

*Beep*

Hey, kiddo. It's me. 

Varla and I were just thinkin' about you. Hope you're well. 

Look, son, I know I wasn't...great. I could have been better. I know you're out there, kickin' butt. Makes me proud. But...I'd really like to see you again. Your bedroom is here. Keepin' it clean. The others boys and girls have been askin' about you too. If you find yourself 'round these parts, kid...well, come home. I miss you. 

I love you.

*Beep*

----

A violet mist fell across the burned out walls of the castle. The ruins of Castle Di Sangro were said to be cursed, haunted--ever since the mysterious fire that broke out there in the 1960s. The locals avoided it. Those who knew better, those who knew of the Alchemists and their dealings, whispered about the ruins. There were legends, of dark experiments gone amok, that still roamed the forbidden dungeons and catacombs beneath the castle. 

Hungry things, lurking in the dark.

That didn't seem to bother the tall, muscular man who walked through the wreckage and the ash. An owl, roosting the archway of a still-intact window, watched the intruder. He was big. Broad shoulder. A giant. If there were thing stirring in the dungeons, they would do well to avoid staling him.

Salim Netjeer approached the dais, drenched in moonlight, and smiled. "Been awhile," he said, to nobody. He looked around the broken castle, specially--the symbol carved into the floor, a snake swallowing its own tail.

"The Great Work," Salim said, taking to their stairs. "Is that what they hoped to accomplish here? Should know better than to try and change the world too quickly. Heh. Learnt that the hard way."

The tall man stood in the center of the circle. What he sought was here, still, surely. The Divine Chalices might now safely lay in Aradia's new vault--a joint jurisdiction of Aradia, the UN, and the Central Church.

Still, there were other artefacts yet beyond their knowledge.

The wind picked up, slightly. Overhead, Salim watched an owl take flight. "Hmm. Not here," he mumbled. He looked towards the rubble of the broken ballroom, where he'd saved Mr. Iron from Recida, some years back. How ironic--he'd rescued the man who ended up besting him. Time was funny like that. Not even the Eye of Osiris saw that one. 

But the power to see the threads of the future were lost to Salim now--perhaps a divine punishment. Or maybe Mr. Iron's piledriver had blasted that part out of him. 

So it didn't surprise Salim when he went to take a step and found that his foot was suddenly stuck to the ground. He looked at this leg. 

No, not stuck. Frozen. Petrified. 

Salim watched the wave spread across his body, from toe to head. He was slowly turning into stone. The stone circle around him glowed, dull. He should have seen it coming. He didn't.

He smiled. If he was going to turn to stone, then he should at least maintain a dashing pose, right?

The transformation was quick. Man one second, statue the next. The castle stood again, silent, for a moment, until the gentle sound of footsteps on granite interrupted the serene ruins.

The woman in black robes approached her work, admiring the handsome, stone man. She lowered her hood, letting fall ringlets of jet black. The middle-aged, she was ageless. A startling beauty.

The woman stood on her toes and placed her face close to the statue, kissing Salim's frozen lips. "My little Samuel was right to find you so attractive," the woman said, in a honey-soaked voice. "And Recida a fool for trying to make an alliance." 

The woman twisted the snake bracelet--fabricated in the same image as the symbol on the ground--on her wrist. The eyes glowed blue, matching the aura emitting from the Alchemist. Not just an alchemist of course--a magi as well. The woman's glyph, Dynamis, burned brightly in the ruins, illuminating everything in ethereal light. She leaned forward, picked up the statue as if it was feather-weight, and slung it over her head, holding it high. She walked back from whence she came.

"Like mother, like son," she said, her musical laugh echoing off the stones.

---

*Beep*

[This is a secure voice message from the Office of the Director of Aradia's Department of Research and Defense. It is intended solely for the recipient, and will erase itself within one hour]

Hey Buck, it's Lil. Um...life's pretty weird, now, I guess. They made me director. Can't believe it. Still have nightmares about what happened here, but I'm getting better. It helps that I beefed up security. 

Oh, and you won't believe it, Slayer is working as one of my agents. He's actually a really good guy. A bit scary about his sense of justice, but...I think he just needed something to protect. Putting people's strengths to where they're most useful. Something I learned from you spellbreakers.

On a lighter note, definitely loving 80s fashion more than the 60s! Music kicks butt. And it looks like spellbreaking is more popular than ever. I wanted to ask though...have you and Spike...er...patched things up yet? I know you were mad about him and Vahni. 

Give him time, Bucky. He'll wake up and realize what he's missing. I won't tell anybody how you really feel about him of course. I won't break your kayfabe...or whatever you call it.

Anyways, that's what's up. So strange. The world has changed so much, but I remember everything that happened...

Too bad we missed out on the 70s, though. Disco looks like it would have been fun. Well, I gotta' go. Buck. I hope you're doing well. And...I don't care if you're the scariest heel since Vahni Rage...you BETTER call your dad soon, or I'm comin' after ya! Lova ya, bud.

*Beep*

-----

The long-haired, muscular babyface, struggled in Buck's iron grip as the man in black choked him, several inches off the canvas. 

"B...Buck..." the trainee choked. "We....we're friends. Why ya' doing this?"

Outside the ring, watching with a cigar tucked between his lips, the masked Serpent took a long puff and smiled proudly.

Scruff ran along Buck's strong chin, a compliment to the tufts of trimmed, dark body hair across his chest. Months of training had turned Buck into a beast--six feet of lean muscle. Wild Buck wouldn't waste having to wash his signature gear during training; he wore all black today. Only his signature neck bandana, a good luck keepsake from his old friend and current nemesis (Spike), showcased to Serpent and the wide-eyed trainees that he knew his band.

Buck looked up at his trainee (what was his name again?) and smiled kindly. "You're doing, great, bud!"

For a moment, the jobber let out a sigh of relief.

Buck spiked him into the mat, slamming him down hard. The canvas shook. All the trainees winced. Serpent smiled, ear to ear. 

"Ungggg...." the poor, broken body at Buck's feet tried to peel himself up. Buck pressed his bootheel on his neck.

"Get up," Buck said, coldly. "Get up, weakling." He took his boot up. "Do as your heel tells you."

"N...no..." the boy whimpered.

"Hmmm." Buck's eyes flashed green. A phantom rattlesnake, what the helpless trainee had mistook for a tattoo, uncurled from around Buck's bicep, slithering down his hand, and locking eyes with Buck's 'training dummy'. Its eyes glowed the same as its master, as it bore its fangs.

The beaten, young man's own eyes suddenly matched the glow. "Ye....yes..."

"Yes, what?" Buck said sweetly. 

"Yes...m-m-master." The trainee's eyes watered as he got to his knees.

"Jefe, stop this," the other trainee seated next to Serpent pleased. "You know what happened to the last guy Buck did this to!"

Serpent merely held up his hand. Wait.

The long-haired jobber, weak on his knees, stood and faced his bewitcher. Buck lifted up his chin with his finger, forcing him to make eye contact. He patted his cheek, twice. 

Everyone held their breath.

Buck shrugged, turned, and began to walk off. Then, he reached behind, jumped up, and brought his 'friend' down to the mat, slamming his neck into the mat.

"AGHHH!"

Serpent smiled, putting his cigar out on the floor. He yawned. "Someone get the medic, please." 

Smirking, Buck dusted off his hands and exited the ring, looking back over his shoulder once to laugh at the broken, twitching jobber he'd wasted. "Anybody else want their neck broken today?" he asked, slipping through the ropes.

Serpent met him out back. Buck had skipped the shower, not wanting to run into the others, and was already dressed in his plain tee and jeans. He drank deeply from a water bottle, and gave Serpent a dark glare as he approached him.

"Problem?" Buck asked his father's old nemesis.

Serpent took the rudeness in stride. "Your animalistic abilities show great promise, hijo."

Buck shrugged. "Next time put me up against someone less weak. I need to sharpen my claws."

"Don't you worry, my wayward son. Training has only just begun."

"Good." Buck didn't have time for him. No matter where he trained, there was always some older man trying to tell him what to do. Serpent was a bit of a creep too. Still, Buck's father wasn't going to give him the training he needed. Colt would only hold him back.  

"Spike pulled a rabbit out of his hat with Rage and King Anubis," Buck said, turning towards the dusty warehouse across from the training ring. The desert wind swept over Serpent's compound. "I need to make his defeat unquestionable. One sided."

Buck kicked his black cowboy boots into the dirt, punctuating his statement. He had nothing more to say to his coach. That'd do. Serpent, ever-patient, narrowed his eyes but said nothing. He'd learned how to best manage Buck. He was a tool that just needed more sharpening; the perfect weapon to turn against Colt.

When the time was right, of course.

Buck crept around the back of the warehouse, happy to be away from the others. At least the other guys and gals at the GSA had personality. Buck found himself missing them.

Then, he shook his head. He would not be weak. The GSA was dead and gone, as far as Buck was concerned. He was a spellbreaker without a league, and he preferred to keep it that way--a ronin, assassin, already making waves.

Grrr...

Buck's ears were keener now, ever since his glyph has awoken, granting him the gift of borrowing the claws, fangs, venom, pheromones, and blood-thirst of wild animals. It helped his hearing too. He picked up on the low growl, coming from his left.

A tarp ran the length over a stack of concrete tubes (this had been a construction site, til Serpent had moved his gang in an re-appropriated it). A shape at the back of one of the tube's caught Buck's attention.

He sniffed, tapping into one of the several 'beasts' he'd retained inside. The wolf. Whatever the creature, it smelled like canine. Coyote, maybe? No, a dog.

Buck drew closer to the concrete tube and knelt, sticking his hand out. "Hello?" He re-focused and drew from the power of the rattle-snake. Serpent had taught him how to use that one. It could beguile.

No, Buck decided. Stag. He instead released some of his pheromones, a more gentle way of influencing others. He didn't want to control the mind of the beast hiding inside the tube. It was obviously scared (Buck could smell fear). It just needed to know he wasn't something to fear (he wasn't).

The shadow slunk closer to the entrance, wary. Buck could see it now. It was a dog, and a rather large one. Black, with patches of gray. A mutt, with some aspects of husky. Might have even been a hybrid, some wolf or coyote in it. It had only one golden eye--the other was missing. A mostly mended gash was visible across its neck.

Buck's heart sunk. "Hey, boy. What happened?"

The dog bared its teeth at Buck and growled. 

Poor thing had been injured; Buck hoped by way of other animal. Because if it was human, then that no-name jobber was going to get another friend in the emergency room tonight.

"Don't worry," Buck said, holding his hand out for the scared dog to sniff. "I may be sort of a bad guy, but I like animals more than humans. Won't hurt ya, bud." 

The dog sniffed Buck. It was still wary. Smart, Buck thought. It's always good to be a little suspicious of others. 

"Looks like you've been kicked around. I know the feeling, huh, outlaw." 

The dog raised its head up and looked at Buck. You...aren't like the other ones.

The Glyph of Physis granted its host the ability to understand the natural world--but animals didn't 'speak' the same way humans did. Theirs was a world of instincts and emotions. It was easier, in many ways, to understand animals than humans. 

This big guy here wouldn't bite him.

The young man removed the bandana around his neck and reached out. He knew he was safe. He needed to convince his new friend here that he was safe too. The dog lowered his head, allowing Buck to wrap the bandana around his neck, giving him some padding for his wound.

Buck leaned back. "Hey, looks real good on you!"

The weary animal laid down, tired, and allowed Buck to pet him.

"Yeah, you're good." Buck smiled. Finally, someone around here worth his time. "You wanna be my bud? I used to have a friend named Zeus, but he's back with...an annoying person I used to know." Hmm. You know, a mascot friend might not be so bad. Can I sic you on jobbers?" Buck laughed.

The dog raised his head and opened his mouth, letting his tongue out. Poor thing was missing a few teeth too.

"I'll feed them to ya, bud! HAHA, is that a 'yes'? You like the name 'Outlaw'?"

The dog suddenly sat up. Though it didn't growl, its attention was intent, focused somewhere behind Buck.

Buck stood and looked over his shoulder, towards the empty water tower on the compound. "Huh? What is it, boy?" 

He sensed someone watching.

There. A shadow. The silhouette against the sun.

"Your new nemesis!" came the strong, cheerful voice.

Buck clenched his fists. "Spike!? That you? Quit being a dick and come down and face me like a real Spellbreaker!"

No, that couldn't be...

"GRRR! Don't even mention that name!"

Buck readied himself, Outlaw by his side. He waited and watched the shadow JUMP from the top of the tower. Buck's heart skipped a beat. Oh great, this chump is gonna' break his own damn legs before I get to!

The boy fell, and as he did, he became a fireball. 

BOOM!

The spellbreaker slammed into the earth, 'super-hero pose' style, sending up a torrent of flame. Clad for a fight, in white, gold, and red, the colorful spellbreaker with the anime-boy hair removed his yellow, sharp goggles. 

"Hey there!" His smile was infectious. "Sorry, were you expecting a sailor?" 

The young man wore a flashy, fire-themed robe--just like the spellbreakers from Japan. Buck already assumed this punk was from Okami, the main fed over there.

"You some kinda' clown?" Buck spat.

The opposition grinned at him. "Better than Hot Topic cowboy, or whatever it is you're trying to pull off, emo boy." His robe became as flames, burning off his body--revealing a snug pair of white, gold/red flame patterned trunks with a phoenix emblazoned over the front.

A sexy clown, at least, Buck suddenly thought. Not bad. Very beat-up-able. He licked his lips. "An afternoon snack. Just what I wanted."

The tall, tan hero (who was very easy on the eyes) looked like he'd stepped out from one of the anime Buck and Spike used to watch together when they were high. The hero hunk pointed a finger at Buck. "I'm more meal than you can handle! And..and..." he stunned. "You'll get diabetes!" 

An awkward silence passed. Mostly...because Buck was struggling to come up with something rude to say.

The evil cowboy scratched his head. "Er...the only one who is going to leave here with a medical condition is YOU. After I get done kicking your ass!" Buck clenched his fist. "You...you'll need a new ass!"

The challenger blinked, and blushed. "Oh. I mean. Huh. I guess we're both still new at trash talk." Then, his eyes shifted downward, to Outlaw. "Awww...what a cutie!"

Outlaw looked up at his new friend. Which one do you think he's talking about? 

Buck spat. "HEY! PAY ATTENTION! You gotta' be a babyface loser. All bark, no bite."

Outlaw growled. Hey! I resent that remark.

The lean, fiery, and muscular spellbreaker made a quick gesture with his hands, almost like a dance, striking a pose. "Your reign of terror ends here, Buck Tamberly. For I am fire's champion!"

Buck blinked, jaw hanging open. "...Huh? What the hell?"

The hero did it again, with a flourish of flame. "The handsome, muscular guardian of justice. I'm Phoenix J!"

Buck said nothing. The newcomer said nothing. The desert wind carried a tumbleweed across their path.

Outlaw laid down next to his new friend, and yawned. What a loser.

"Yeah, I agree!" Buck snapped, shaking his fist at this red, white, and gold idiot. "I don't care who you are--or even IF you're kinda' sexy--I'LL KICK YOUR DAMN TEETH IN! FLAMER!"

"Dang, the boys didn't tell me you'd be this cute." The punk with the crazy hair and cute smile leered at him. "I'll still teach you a lesson! By the wings of the mighty phoenix, I will punish you!"

LAUGHING!? This...this fiery freak was LAUGHING? Buck growled. "Come over here and fight me, dude!"

Phoenix J shrugged. "Love the fighting spirit, Buck!" The hero ran his hand through his spikey hair, trailing flames. He looked him up and down, blushed, and smiled. "Looks like my ex has good taste, I'll give him that."

Buck blinked. "Ex!?" Does he mean...Spike?

Phoenix J walked up to Buck, without fear, and grabbed his hand--Buck was too shocked (and too knowing) to try and pull a fast-one on him.

And even he had to admit...this Phoenix J freak's smile...was kind of adorable.

"Heh." Phoenix scratched the side of his face, charmingly, blushing. "This future needs a new hero. Nice to meet ya...villain." He winked.

Buck lowered his head. Then, he smirked. "So you want a fight, flamer? You just got one."

That was the spirit.

Phoenix J flexed his muscle, the one bicep flex he taught his ex, Spike, years ago. "You got it, Wild Buck. Let's rumble!" 

The End...

...For now.

Chapter 11: Let's Dance

"HOLY SH***"

Death was a lot noisier than Spike expected. He wanted to sleep. His eyes fluttered open, senses coming back online. It was hard to keep his eyes open. Sleep. Sleep was good.

"Daemian, please do not swear. You know it makes me uncomforta--HOLY SH**"

Where Spike had just been had been nothing but calm. A tranquillity still embraced him, but now everything suddenly felt more real. His body ached. His head throbbed. His vision blurred. Who were these familiar voices? What did they want? Why had they been calling his name?

"I'll get the nurse! Spike, bicha, I swear if you don't wake up I will break both your arms."

Iggy? Iggy wants to break my arm? They always want to break my arm. So...rude...

Spike's eyes fluttered open unto halogen light. For a moment, he thought he might actually be in Heaven. Then, he saw Deadboy's face--a rare mix of concern and surprise.

Spike groaned. "I'm in Hell. I guess that tracks..."

Daemian glared. "That's what you say to the bloke who BROUGHT YOU BACK FROM THE DEAD, C***?"

This was real. Spike wondered if this was what it was like to be born--to come back into existence. Everything was so strange, even though it should be familiar. Deadboy just stared at him. So odd to see him look concerned.

"Why...the hell is your hair like that?" Spike said slowly.

Gobsmacked, Deadboy--wearing a cut-off jean jacket, ran his fingers through his dark mullet, streak with purple. "You've been asleep for a bloody week and the first thing you want to do is make fun of my haircut?" Daemian's lip quivered slightly, before he threw his arms around Spike's neck. "You little idiot."

Spike turned his weary head, ready to pass out again. He was in a hospital bed. IV drip in his arms. EKG. He just knew he looked like shit. "A...week?" he said, as his eyes scanned a bedside table stacked high with get-well-cards and flowers. He recognized some of the handwriting. He certainly recognized Buck's art (damn, great pic of me holding the title belt). Spike looked toward Kengo, dressed (rather fetchingly) in a suit and tie. The lanyard around his neck confused Spike, but he was in no position to demand elaboration.

"The spirits are good," Kengo whispered under his breath. "Roomie. We thought..." His eyes filled with tears. "We brought you back from the..." Kengo shook his head. Daemian and I."

Spike groaned. His head hurt. He felt like someone had opened him up and stuffed him with cotton. Pinned on the wall next to him was a simply designed, woven dreamcatcher.

"Robbie made that for you," Daemian said, cracking open a can of coke and sitting in the chair next to Spike. "Said he wanted you to have good dreams. Did it work?"

Spike remembered everything, though he could not place when it had happened--his meeting his dad (if that were real), and seeing Salim in the 'metaphor thing' that had taken the shape of John Henry's gym. "I think so. I...I saw my dad."

Daemian blinked. "Oath?"

Spike nodded. "Oath." 

"Oh. Then you must have really died." Daemiain shrugged, put his can down, and belched loudly. He rested his Doc Martin's on Spike's bed. "Kengo and I used our glyphs to try and bring your soul back while the docs did their thing."

"There is no medical explanation for what happened to you," Kengo said. placing a cold, wet towel on Spike's forehead. "You absorbed a lot of energy. It completely short circuited your nervous system. You were clinically dead for quite some time. It is a miracle you stabilized."

Spike tried not to pass out, hearing this information alone. "A week, you said?" He thought about it. "Does that mean...?"

"Ha!" Daemian laughed. "Yeah. Bedpan. Don't worry--wasn't Ken and me changin' it."

He wasn't even embarrassed about that. In fact, Spike wanted to laugh, but his chest hurt. His life hurt. 

"We're in New York City," Kengo told Spike. "St. Milia Hospital in Manhattan. It is a very good one. They treat a lot of injuries like yours here, so I thought..."   

"I thought it felt a lot like home," Spike said, smiling. "Still...something feels...off..."

He tried to crane his neck, but Kengo gently encouraged him to stay still. Though Spike didn't have enough energy to process what was going on, there were tell-tale signs of something being...off, that bothered him. There was black box on the wall, with bright red numbers. It took Spike several seconds to realize it was some sort of time display.

"What the hell is that thing?" Spike said, nodding to the object. 

Kengo looked over his shoulder. "Oh? It is a clock."

"THAT'S a clock?"

Daemian and Kengo's eyes met. "Oh no, he doesn't realize..."

But before Spike could utter the obvious 'realize WHAT?' the sound of oncoming footsteps, and a whole team of medical staff, drew his eyes towards the door.

Nurses and doctors flocked to Spike's bedside, muttering shocked medical phraseology that Spike couldn't even begin to understand. Besides, he was too distracted by the tall, muscular figure in the tight shirt and light-pink blazer. Their crossly cropped hair, almost a mohawk, threw Spike completely off.

"Ig...Iggy?"

Spike's malicious mentor smiled. "Bom dia, sleepy head." Iggy posed, letting free a small shower of sprakles. "What do you think of the new do?"

"You got new hair too?" Spike asked, confused. "Why does everyone have new hair? Did we all treat ourselves to the salon after savin' the world, or what?"

"Ah, yeah...about that." Iggy nodded to the doctors. "Let's...get you back on your feet first before we blow your mind."

Spike felt dizzy. "My mind's already been blown for one lifetime, friend."

Spike's fatigue soon caught up with him (as did the medications) and he found himself in a welcome, dreamless sleep before long. By morning, however, he felt full of vim and vigor. The doctors told him they'd need to monitor him throughout the day. Spike had no choice but to agree. 

"I left the boss a message on the ol' answering machine," Daemian said, coming back into the room. 

"That 'what'?" Spike shook his head. "A machine that answers you?"

The doctors had briefly asked all guests to leave while they checked Spike's vitals. They were all shocked to find him, suddenly, the picture of health. The punk (with the mullet) nodded to Spike. "You...don't know what an answering machine is?"

"Duh?"

Daemian glared. "Want me to send you back to the underworld again, s***c***? Ugh. But that's right--we didn't have widely available answering machines in the sixties, yeah?" 

Spike couldn't follow. His head still hurt. As he tried to make sense, Kengo sprung back into the room, red faced and panting.

"It's...it's Sandra Iron."

Spike forced himself up, wincing, trying to stabilize himself. He wasn't dizzy. Good. "Whaddya' mean? Did she get hurt too? She wasn't even there! Is Mr. Iron okay? Why aren't you answering me!?"

"OY! Because you're talkin' a kilometre-a-minute, mate!" Daemian spat. "One thing at a time, or do you want your pretty head to nearly explode again? Didn't think so."

"She gave birth!" Kengo said, catching his breath at last. "A healthy baby boy!"

Spike's face lit up like the sun. "Whaaaaa!? World champion and a new dad? Mr. Iron must feel on top of the world." As he should. Goddess knows coach deserved it. "When do we get to see the baby?"

Kengo walked over and gently pressed his massive hand on Spike's forehead, lowering back to the pillow. "When this baby is cleared to get on his feet." He poured Spike a glass of water. "Minoru sends his regards too. He said he knew you'd come back, that you were too much of a..." Kengo blushed. "Expletive expletive to die. In my system of belief, when someone recovers from a grave illness around the same time as a new birth in their community, it is believed the two souls become interlinked."

The sudden realization, that he'd nearly died, made Spike's head swim. "Damn. Huh. Waitaminute...does that mean...Mr. Iron appointed me the kid's Goddess Father?"

"Nah," Daemian laughed. "He said that'd be Colt. The president is back in San Antonio, dealing with..." Daemian shrugged. "Everything. Did you know we had to all get interviewed and  debriefed by the bloody CIA? Aradia's been called into the UN and everything. Weirdly enough though, what happened at the world championships has cooled the heels of both Russia and the US. They're still pointin' nukes at each other, but they took what happened in Kitezh as a warning. I'm sure Lily is chuffed to know he org is gonna get heaps of funding now..."

Spike still had a million questions. Kengo tried his best to answer. Kengo was a resident now, at this hospital. When the glyph had run amok, Deadboy used his dark magick to teleport the rest of the spellbreakers to safety. But when they'd come out the other side of the dark corridor, the New York City they'd appeared in was...well...

"Changed," Kengo explained. "Uh...you see..." 

Spike's heart skipped a beat. "How long have I really been asleep, Kuma?"

Kengo smiled, nervously. "A week."

"And you became a resident of a New York City hospital WITHIN A WEEK? I mean, I knew you were smart, but--"

"It is...complicated. We still don't understand it. But...it seems Salim did something to...well...I...can't..." Kengo was tongued tied. 

Spike, glad to be walking around, tugged on his hospital gown. "Never mind, you'll either give me or yourself a panic attack. Salim mentioned to me that he had to something to...the timeline?" Spike scratched his head.

Kengo nervously handed Spike a pile of clothing. "We couldn't find your old clothing when we escaped Kitezh. Iggy and Daemian seemed to think you'd appreciate these?"

Spike frowned as he picked up the navy blue top. "Kengo. This shirt is missing its bottom." Spike tossed off the hospital gown and looked at himself in the mirror, giving himself a flirty wink and 'finger gun'. "Still got the bod, at least. And...THE HAIR!?"

Spike's eyes bugged out of his head. His hair was no longer shortly cropped, Navy style, but long and luscious and full (just like it had been, briefly, in his showdown with Salim). He looked more like the old Iggy Astro! Spike couldn't help but run his fingers through it.

"Yesss. YES. LOOK AT ME. Kengo! Look how pretty I am." He tossed his hair back and forth, like a shampoo model. "What's my secret? Well, I'll never tell. Oh yes. YESSSS." 

Growing rapidly excited with his new 'look' (not even questioning how his hair had grown in the span of a week) Spike tugged his new shirt over his body. His abs were completely visible.

"It's called a...crop...top?" Kengo explained. "Apparently they are quite popular with men these days."

These days? Spike put on the short shorts and admired himself in the mirror. "This is...the singular best piece of clothing that's ever been invented. Kinda' weird though. Don't ya think people will look at me funny wearing something like this?"

Iggy waltzed into the room and whistled at his mentee. "Lookin' good and slutty."

Spike frowned. "I dunno, Igs. Even I don't think is appropriate to wear to see a baby."

"Here," Daemian said, tossing him his jean jacket. "Just don't get baby vomit on it."

---

"OH HE'S THE MOST PRECIOUS THING!"

John and Sandra's kid looked like a little peanut. He slept against his mother's chest. Sandra, looking very glamorous for a woman who'd just given birth to her first kid, smiled down at him.

"He was pretty easy," Sandra said. "My momma always said that an easy labor meant rearing an easy kid."

"Bet you were a difficult birth," Mr. Iron said, winking at his wife.

"John Henry, you're lucky I'm in this bed!" She laughed. "Do you want to hold him?" She offered Spike.

"What!?" Spike balked. "No. I'm...what if I drop him?"

"He's an Iron," John said, gently taking his son (nearly lost in his father's arms) and placing him in Spike's hands. "He'd probably just bounce."

Spike swallowed. He looked down at the sleeping baby. He decided then that he'd gladly throw himself in front of a runaway glyph again for this kid. "What's his name?" Come on, you named him Spike, right.

"We named him Spike," Sandra said.

"REALLY!?"

"No!" the woman laughed. "But I just wanted to see your face. It was worth it."

"Aurelio," Mr. Iron said. "A name as good as gold."

"My father was Cornelio," Sandra explained. "And 'Au' is the periodic symbol for gold. I think he'll probably just end up being called 'Lio' though. I don't want him to get beat up on the playground."

"If he's our kid," John said, "he'll be the one doing the beating up."

"Oh, John! We don't even know if he'll have a glyph yet." Sandra took back her kid. "And it won't matter. It's a new world, now. He's going to be just fine."

Spike was inclined to agree. For the first time in awhile, he felt hopeful and calm. 

While Sandra tended to Aurelio, Mr. Iron took Spike on a walk down the hospital corridor. More and more, Spike picked up on the strange technology about the place--vending machines with glass windows and electronic buttons; windowed boxes with green, electronic text that nurses and doctors communicated with via some sort of typewriter board, signs telling people not to smoke.

"Notice anything...interesting?" Mr. Iron said, slyly.

"This hospital is state of the art," Spike marvelled. "I've never seen machines like these before."

"We've had a week to get used to it. It's odd. You look at something like a computer, are confused for a moment or two, and then it's like you suddenly remember everything about it. I reckon that snake Salim had some hand in it."

Spike bit his lip. "Yeah. He said had to do something to fix the mess he made. Also, what's a computer?"

"Fine mess indeed. I'd crack his skull again if I could...but he's seemed to have dropped off the face of the Earth. International wanted man, they say."

"How's it feel to be champion?"

"Meh." Mr. Iron, dressed in a fine, charcoal suit (the cut and tie also very 'modern') smiled at his young apprentice. "Being World Champ is all well and good, but it's just a title. Sure, it's nice to be recognized but...I'm much more concerned about the state of the world."

Spike and Mr. Iron stopped at the lobby lounge. A nurse slept on the couch. A doctor handed a different nurse some coffee in a plastic cup. It was strangely quiet. The music over the loudspeakers had unusual instrumentation that Spike had never heard before--a sort of tinny, electronic sound. He liked it.

"The music is different too," Mr. Iron said, absently.

"Salim told me that you didn't make a wish," Spike said.

"No."

"Why, coach?"

Mr. Iron sighed and leaned against the corridor wall. "I really should have. It just didn't feel right. There's no shortcuts in life, blondie. Certainly not when it comes to changing the world. I just...I hope I made the right choice."

"Coach, it's you--of course you did, big guy. I'd trust you with the world. And I guess...we all kinda' did."

Mr. Iron gave him a wan, sad smile. "I keep forgetting. And funny that, nobody will know. But I guess that's being selfless, eh? I've managed to brush up on history. Since the world suddenly changed over night. History books say we've come a long way, people like you and I. I suspect though, we haven't come long enough. We still have a tough fight on our hands. That's the thing about being a face, Spike. There's always a new heel to tangle with--always another battle."

Sobering words. Spike wasn't sure he was ready to hear them so soon, after all that had happened. 

"We'll beat them," he said, confidently.

---

Manhattan's towers were as tall as ever...and even taller than Spike had remembered. New York had become an arcology of glittering spires illuminated by massive, swinging spotlights. Gone were the aesthetics of brass and chrome--the art deco skyscrapers had since been dwarfed by pyramidal apartment blocks numbering the thousands. Old Manhattan was dead.

Neon reigned supreme. 

New wave spilled forth, cold and distant, from out of the goth's boombox as the girl with the black eyeliner gave dumbfounded Spike a confused look. Across the street, a woman in a spandex leotard, with a teased-out, hair-sprayed mane, hailed a taxi cab that appeared to be hovering several inches off the ground. The women around Spike dressed in business suits with padded shoulders. Glowing signs of neon fury rose around Spike, dazzled by this strange Manhattan of the modern. 

His eyes followed the chyron wrapping around the news tower in front of him. April 12th. 1985.

Spike fell backwards, caught at the last second by Iggy Astro, chewing a piece of gun. "Welcome to the future, Spike."

"I...need to sit down," Spike said, taking a seat at the hospital bench. In front of him, the poster on the bus stop advertised a band of psychedelic, spandex-clad rock stars. Iggy recognized the one in the front. Vanity Paradise and Iggy Astro--Live!

Revelling in his bewilderment, Iggy wrapped their arm around Spike and held them close. "The future has been kind to the Cosmic Crusher! Imagine that. I step out of the nineteen-sixties into 1985 and suddenly I'm more famous for my music than my spellbreaking." He beamed. Hearts of solid light floated up from their head. "I always thought my sound was much too ahead of its time. Turns out, it's right at home here the eighties."

Spike was on the verge of puking. "But...HOW ARE WE NOT LIKE...FORTY YEARS OLD!?"

Then Spike remembered. 'Cut-and-paste job', Salim had said.

Iggy shrugged. "Well, after what we saw in Kitezh, I don't really question much any more. It is weird though. Only the GSA and the Aradia task force seem to remember that last week we were still years away from putting a man on the moon. Now..." Iggy shrugged.

Spike's jaw dropped. "WE PUT A MAN ON THE MOON?" 

Nonplussed, Iggy pointed to the road. "Hover cars, Spike. Please keep up. Oh yeah, it also looks like spellbreaking has gotten pretty popular. Look." Iggy nodded to one of the many electronic signs hanging off the side of the news tower across the way.

Spike squinted. Then, his heart dropped. "YOU GOTTA BE FRIGGIN' KIDDIN' ME!"

Full of sound and fury and light, the TV advertisement for Sunday Night Spellbreaking showcased a hole slew of spellbreakers Spike had never crossed paths before--all of them more colorful, dazzling, and RIPPED than Spike had ever seen. Mr. Iron shirtless, flexed for the camera, grinning, with his world champ belt slung over his shoulders.

Spike smiled. "He's still champ. Great."

Then, his smile faded. Spike never liked seeing himself on TV (a surprise to everyone, considering his ego). Here he was, decked out in navy and gold gear, posing on top of the turnbuckle. Spike had never seen himself look so...confident before.

Spike on TV raised the mic to his lips. "That's right--get a look at all this perfection." Spike gestured to his enviable, muscular body. 

"Wow, that's a lot of baby oil I've got on." On the street, Spike noted his double's new gear. Blue velvet, trimmed white, like the cushioning of a crown. Royal. Gone, however, was the anchor--replaced instead with the golden emblem of a lion rearing up for attack.

Spike couldn't believe it. "That's...me, right, Igs? Not Cian in disguise or anything weird, right?"

Iggy flicked Spike's nose. "Shh. Yes. Watch."

Spike on TV tossed back his mane and allowed his loyal subjects to finish their cheers. "Yes. You all see it. I'm shinin' like the sun. And that mouthy hick who claims he's gonna dethrone me is in for a shock to the system when I kick his teeth in next week!" 

The crowd popped. 

"WOAH! I sound like a heel!" Spike squeaked.

"You're welcome," Iggy answered.

"Huh. So...I'm still in a hot rivalry with Vahni?"

Iggy, grinning with mischief, turned away. "You'll see..."

Spike on TV grabbed the camera and brought it closer to his face. "You hear that, sports fans? Next Sunday...you're gonna watch a young lion take down a buck. Wild Buck, that is. You say you aren't your daddy's boy, Buck Tamberly? Damn right. By the time I'm done with you, you'll be calling ME daddy." Spike dropped the mic. The crowd went berserk.

On the bench, Spike's face nearly fell off into the concrete. "Whaaaaaaaaaaaaa????"

Before Iggy could even butt in with something snarky or clever, the two spellbreakers heard a gasp from their right. A young teen, dressed in a basketball jersey, with gelled-up hair, pointed at them. "YO! Check it out! It's the Young Lion!"

Spike cocked his head to the side. "Igs, is that youth talkin' to us?"

Nearby, a girl with teased out, blonder hair squeaked and ran towards them, her beaded necklaces dangling in the wind. Others too, young and old, closed in.

Spike jumped back into the bench. "What's goin' on!?" He was already freaked out enough as is. These people, with big hair, and strange, colorful outfits, swarmed him.

"Autograph! Please!"

"Spike, my son loves you!"

"Young Lion, put me in a lion clutch, please!"

Spike blinked, trying his best to recompose himself. He cleared his throat, glanced briefly at his smug mug on the TV, and tried his best to emulate this spellbreaker he apparently was in this timeline. "Well...of course. Only my most loyal subjects could recognize me in the wild. Obviously you aren't peasants."

Spike had missed this. Whatever Salim had done to the time line, he'd thrown them a bone. But what had happened to Spike's 'Sailorboy' moniker? Everything on the TV set showed a world where spellbreaking was bigger, bolder, brighter. Was this perhaps the 'Golden Age' of spellbreaking that Colt had long-hope was somewhere on the horizon?

And what of Buck? Wild Buck? Where was he now?

Spike did his best to keep up his kayfabe (he enjoyed being ab it of a cocky dick) signing autographs and kissing cheeks. Iggy took the role of makeshift manager, shooing away the riff raff (and clearly indulging in the role). Soon, though, the crowd became overwhelming. Spike stood on the bench and called for order.

Just as he did, a bright flash threw the sidewalk meet-and-greet into a tizzy. Spike's 'loyal subjects' drew back from the blazing circle of fire that had sprouted at Spike and Iggy's feet. Spike looked to Iggy. "Rage?"

The ring of fire widened, pushing away the manic audience. It divided in front of Spike, forming a corridor for him to follow. With no other choice, Spike walked forward, craning his head over his shoulder and watching Iggy, lounging on the bench, wave him on.

A white limousine, trimmed in gold, zoomed down the road towards Spike. As it did, the so-called 'Young Lion' looked up across the street, noticing two familiar faces.

Seemed time hadn't caught up with Cian yet. He wore a tight ringer tee (green, of course), looking every bit like the high school jock. Next to him, face barely concealed by a black cowboy hat...

"Buck!?"

The handsome Buck tipped up his hat, looking at Spike with an intense expression. He looked tougher, now (maybe it was his lack of glasses ). Like a more cleaned up, yet intimidating, version of his father.

He smiled.

Spike smiled back.

The white limo pulled up alongside Spike, just as the flames (and crowd) died down. The door opened upward, on its hinges. Spike looked inside the lit interior.

Arms stretched across upholstered seats, a martini sitting on a table in front of him, the man in the suit adjusted his collar. Spike's first thought was that he was looking at Salim. 

But he'd know Vahni Rage's glamorous hair and handsome face anywhere. The well-suited heel's smirk could still cut deeply into Spike's heart. He reached down towards the table, picked something up, and threw it outside the limo.

A gold collar landed at Spike's feet. He looked down at it, and then at the handsome rogue waiting for him in the limo. 

Rage shrugged. Your choice. 

Mischief on his mind (and a whole host of more lascivious ides) Spike bent down and picked up the collar. He placed it across his neck and latched it, flicking the little name-tag that read "SPIKE".  

He stepped into the car, finding the door automatically shut behind him. Without fear, Spike took a seat next to Vahni Rage, who looked down at him with a hunger--and a softness--in his eyes.

This time, Spike grabbed Rage's neck first, pulling him and kissing him passionately. Thank goodness the limo's partition was up. Spike and Rage would need their privacy.

As the limo pulled away, Cian and Spike, left on a sidewalk strewn with litter and discarded newspaper, watched their friend vanish into the skyways of modern Manhattan.

Buck's fists tightened. Cian looked at him with empathy. "Don't worry, boyo. He always does that."

Buck's shoulders raised, and then fell. He tipped his head. "I know," he said. "That's Spike. Just makes things more interesting now."

Cian turned his head towards his friend, now a spellbreaker--and a deadly one--in his own right. "What do you mean?"

Buck's smile flashed just as brightly as his eyes lit up, wicked green. "You think you're king of the jungle, Spike? The hunt is on. And you will be mine..."

Just One More Thing...

Chapter 10: Lazarus

Everything, white and endless. 

Boundless. 

Green diamonds, rhombuses, vague shapes swirled past. 

There was Spike, and there was...not Spike. Part of everything. All of this. 

The outside. Maybe this is how life really was. Everything was outside, and infinite. This realm was the real. Where Spike was, a temporary state. A playground. 

Wherever Spike was, whatever Spike was now, this...purest form, they were okay with that. They were at peace. They were warm. They part of an endless energy.

But...not so.

----

Car horns and voices. Winter wind.

Spike blew warm air into his gloved hands, rubbing them together in the chill air of the Lower East Side. The cross walked changed, and Spike stepped off the curb, crossing Houston Street, taking note of the banks of old, crystalized snowfall across awnings and rooftops. 

Katz's Delicatessen sat on the corner. Most Manhattanites were convinced it was older than the Statue of Liberty. While mile high skyscapers of gold and bronze had grown tall around it, joined by massive colossi upholding skyways and byways across their shoulders, the deli remained an ever unchanged institution serving the intersections of New York.

It was a bright day. Bright, and cold. Spike stepped through the door, to the jingling of bells--into the wide, warm, rowdy room, rife with the scent of eggs, cooked meat, sauerkraut, and fresh rye bread. He forgot, momentarily, who he was meant to meet for lunch. 

He looked around.

A skinny, clean-shaven man, with white hair (he could have been Spike if Spike was older and had never touched a dumbbell in his life) waved him over. Spike smiled and walked over to the table, passing...well, there were other customers here, yes, weren't there? Some faces familiar. Some, not so much. With every step Spike took, it felt like something was on the tip of his tongue. This was just a casual lunch with his father. 

So, why did his heart feel like it might overflow with emotions?

"I already ordered you an egg cream," Lawrence Waterford sniffed as he put down the menu. "You're welcome."

"Thanks, pops," Spike beamed. He removed his coat, draped it over the chair, and sat down. "It feels like I haven't seen you in..."

"Forever?" The gentle man folded his arms (probably the most muscular part of his body) on the table. "I've been waiting."

"Aww geez, pops, you don't have to be so mean about it! Err...have you been waiting long?"

"I'm just teasing you, son," the man said. He wore a green cardigan. Looking at him now (Spike couldn't remember the last time...) he realized he'd also inherited his broad shoulders. "So, I hear you're beating up men in your underwear now? Is that so? Well, can't say it's the family business, but your dad was a war medic and your mom a singer...then a soldier...so I guess spellbreaking sits somewhere between entertainment and combat, no?" 

Spike blushed, and but his lip. As he went to speak, a waitress approached their table with a trey, sitting down two egg creams. "Thanks," Spike said, looking up and trying to decide where he knew the dark haired woman from. She was pretty, with a mean look in her eyes. Her name tag read: 'Francesca.' 

"Hey, don't I know you?"

The attractive (and somewhat scary) woman tucker a stray hair back over her ears and scowled at Spike so hard that the young fighter flinched. "Yeah. It's me." 

Spike narrowed his eyes. Then... "Belladonna?"

"Yeah. This is my job now, I guess. I have to work here until I pay off my debt." She sighed, taking out her notepad. "Serving others. Pathetic."

"Well, don't expect a tip from me with that attitude," Lawrence said. "Just kidding. I always tip waitstaff. I'm a staunch unionist."

"Ah, so that's where I get the heroism from," Spike said.

The waitress glared at both of them. "Look, I'll come back when you're ready to order."

So strange, Spike thought, watching the woman vanish back into the kitchen. He looked back at this father. Really looked at him. Took in the kindness in his face. His lopsided smile. Unkempt, goose down-feathery hair. Spike's heart suddenly hurt. 

"Pops..."

"I'm right here." Lawrence looked over his shoulder. "Was there another dad you were looking for?" Though he was joking, his eyes told another story.

He knew.

Spike sighed and placed his hands on the menu. He felt like he might cry...though strangely, he knew tears weren't possible in this place. "I miss you so much. The truth is, I always think how you should be in the audience at my matches. I'm just worried...well, I've always been worried...that I've grown up to disappoint you."

"Ah." Lawrence nodded his head. "What kind of idiot would I if I shamed the kid--my only son--who helped save the gosh darn world!? That would be petty. Really petty." 

Reaching his hands over the table, Lawrence's fingertips met the space just between his and Spike's hands. "You're living your life, kid. Your truth. Your dreams. You're entertaining people! Just like your mom...."

Spike looked up at his father. He smiled. "Right."

Before he could ask any another question, however, Spike experienced a strange blur, a blip. A flash of light. Silhouettes looking down. Voices.

He's stabilizing. Heartrate is returning to normal. He might just make it.

When Spike managed to look up again, he met eyes with Belladonna, looking at him as if he'd just puked all over the table.

"Sorry. Head chef has politely asked you to leave."

Spike turned to his father, who wore a sad expression. Spike didn't want to leave. He didn't want to go anywhere. He was happy here. It was peaceful. 

Then, he remembered all the people waiting for him back home. How much he would miss them.

"Oh, already?" Spike studied his father. He wanted to make sure to memorize his appearance, his face, the sound of his voice, so he could remember it. "Pops..."

"Right," Lawrence sighed. Belladonna let them be. The magi shrugged. "Well, can't argue with the head chef, now can we?"

"No," Spike said. "I guess not. I..." He opened his mouth. He'd never been good at coming up with smart things to say. It was certainly very difficult to try now. "I am incredibly sorry we didn't get more time together. It's my greatest regret."

"But...pops...you sacrificed yourself for a better world."

"And how you've followed in your father's footsteps." Lawrence laughed, sadly. "Well. I guess this is it. I...may have put in a good word and asked the certain 'powers that be' to give you a second chance. What do they say in spellbreaking? Er...you kicked out at 'two'?"

"Close enough." Spike stood, compelled by greater forces than he could comprehend. Already, the light was changing. He was becoming lucid. "Pops. I love you."

"I love you too, Sammy."

Spike wanted to reach out and touch him, hug him, but he knew this rare visit was worth a thousand world championships, and Spike would have given up the chance at all of them just to spend another moment talking to his dad.

Just as the light flooded in, and Spike was aware that he needed to be somewhere else, he turned to his father and asked. "Wait. Why isn't Ma here with you?"

The last image of his dad was a calm, knowing smile.

---

Bloody hell, Spike, if you die...I'm gonna' to kick your arse on the other side.

We must focus. I can feel his spirit...it is between this world, and the next.

Death and Spirit. That safe to combine powers like that, Ken?

Er...probably not. But we have no choice.

Right. Spike...your mates are comin' for ya!

---

Clarity returned, though where Spike found himself next was not at all where he'd expected to land. The smell of mildew and old sweat was familiar. The broken ceiling. Exposed pipes. Window fans. A very sad looking training room in a warehouse.

This is where it all began.

He knew Salim would be waiting for him in the ring. Spike also knew he had every right to bite his head off--aside from betraying his trust, nearly getting his friends killed (and that bit about taking over the world), Spike had nothing but disdain for the handsome giant.

But Spike found it a very difficult thing to hold much hate after Heaven. He stepped into the ring, crossed his hands over his chest (similar to the temporal excursion he'd experienced previously with Salim, he wasn't entirely sure he had a corporeal body).

This time, there was no fight to be had.

Salim turned and faced Spike. Either he'd pulled some magickal trickery, or the laws governing reality inside this 'space' were flexible, because he was suddenly decked out in a tailored suit of gold and white. This was a new look.

"Well," Salim, much more fresh faced (and less bloody) said. "It's good to see you."

Spike sized him up and down. He wasn't a threat. "You tryin' to tell me you've gone face with that beachside-wedding-in-the-Hamptons suit, you damn punk?"

"Spike...It's over."

"...The world?"

"If you want it to be..."

"I REALLY DON'T!" Spike blurted out. He could tell from Salim's ever-knowing smirk, however, that this was probably just one of his famous half-truths. That gave him hope. "Where...uh...where are we?"

Salim shrugged. "Oh, just one of those quantum pseudo-realities. Maybe a metaphor kind of thing. A waystation, if you will." He looked around the dusty room, stained with years of spilled soda pop and ceiling leakage. "Guess it took the form of your old training gym. Gee. What a dump."

"Hey, buddy, that's my dump you're talkin' about. And you got some nerve after what you just pulled. I trusted you. We all did. You were my friend!"

"I'm still your friend, Spike."

"FRIENDS DON'T TRY TO KILL FRIENDS IN A WEIRD CONTEST TO DECIDE THE FATE OF THE WORLD! DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THEREPY THIS IS GONNA COST ME WHEN I GET OUTTA' HERE? ALSO, AM I DEAD? I SWEAR, IF I'M DEAD, I'M COMIN' TO HAUNT YOUR ASS!"

"...Are you done?"

Spike was done. "Whatever, Salim. So...what now? The world ends? Even after we just went through the trouble of kicking your ass to save it? That sucks. That really sucks."

"I'm surprised it took humans this long to wipe themselves off the face of the Earth."

"I don't want to be wiped off the face of the Earth! I don't want the world to end!"

"Then...it doesn't have to." Salim turned and rested against the ropes--reclined, really. He looked defeated. Resigned. Yet strangest of all, he also looked relieved. "Your cute friend was right. People like me shouldn't live as long as we do. I got tired of seeing humanity make the same damn mistakes, again and again. So, I tried to do something about it. But I guess it was opting fr the easy way out, like Mr. Iron put it."

Spike was confused. Still, he sensed he should let Salim speak.

"Him and I had talk. One of those mind-space things--before he gave me a piledriver that could have wiped out the dinosaurs, that is. He refused my world. I considered just going forward with my plan anyway, but then the thing with the Genesis Glyph happened. I guess even a demi-god can't control something like that..."

Spike was quiet. For the first time in his life (or afterlife) he didn't have a snarky retort.

"All this fighting," Salim began. Something caught in his throat. "It's really easy to lay on a metaphor about spellbreaking and wrestling--how it's a macrocosm of conflict and yadda-yadda. I just think humanity needs a safe outlet for its bloodlust, while we learn to evolve. And hell, maybe the world would be a better place if we could just settle our disputes in-ring."

"Where are you going with this?" Spike said, cutting him off. 

Salim pushed himself off the ropes, rebalancing himself. "The world is more complicated than a wrestling match, Spike. I threw a tantrum thinking I could somehow challenge that notion. I lost. I was right to lose. You and your friends fought like hell for the world." Salim held out his hand, a diminutive form of the Genesis Glyph, near-gray, having lost its luster, materialized over his palm. "I hope you understand you're going to get the world you fought for now."

Spike flinched. "The Glyph of Creation..."

"It's power is waning, don't worry," Salim assured him. "I have just enough to slightly alter the timeline, prevent Russia and the US from going ham. At least, for a little while. The thing about time is that it's even more of a heel than I am. It's also self correcting. It may just delay things a little longer, but..." Salim crushed the glyph in his hands, turning into an ephemeral, multi-hued glitter. He smiled. "The world just kicked out at two." 

"People really need to come up with better jokes," Spike said. He was too confused, too fatigued, too...non-corporeal, to be anxious about things now, though. "So, what does that mean? Remember, Salim, the Goddess made me pretty; She didn't make me smart."

"I keep telling you, small friend, you're smarter than you think you are. And it means that the timeline is spared. For now. The world returns to normal. You can go back to your life with everyone in it, and forge ahead." Salim paused. "I am glad to have known you, Spike Waterford. I hope you keep fighting to become world champion. Just watch out for Mr. Iron--he's got a mean clothesline." 

Spike didn't know what to say. He was still angry at Salim, but a part of him held a certain degree of empathy. Certainly, there were worse people unable to admit when they'd been wrong. Maybe this was the man just trying to make amends.

"I know I will face judgment for my crimes," Salim said, turning and walking towards the ropes. He ducked under. "As I should. Which means...you probably won't be seeing me for awhile. I have some things I need to work on. I am still going to change the world. No doubt about that. And I cannot safely say what will happen to you if you try to get in my way again. But if puts your pretty, blonde head at ease, know this--I am going to try changing it on less...megalomaniacal terms."

Salim shrugged. "Besides, it would be so damn boring if they recycled me as the big bad for season 2."

"I still have no idea what you're saying half the damn time," Spike said. "But Salim. I hope when we do meet again, it's on nice terms. I'll miss my manager."

"And I'll miss my little babyface champ," Salim said, warmly. He stepped outside the ring, just as the room began flooding with light. "Oh yeah, about that timeline shift. I had to do a cut-and-paste job. Everyone on Earth who was alive and present when the Genesis Glyph ran amok will return...however, their lives, occupations, and relationships might be a bit...er...altered. I tried to help you spellbreakers out though. You'll retain memory of everything. Which may actually make things even more interesting for you studs."

Spike tried to make sense of it, even as he felt himself being pulled back into the void. "Wait, whaddya' mean our relationships will be changed!?"

But Salim only maintained his smirk, the same expression he'd work when Spike had first met him at the gala. "Word of advice, Spikey. New Coke is gonna suck. Also...you're gonna LOVE Madonna."

To Be Continued...