Protect yourselves at all times! ((OPEN))

[The Cinderella Man]

(((This battle is open to one participant, but only if he has some hand-to-hand skills. This, after all, is supposed to be a boxing match. At least at the beginning.))

The uproar was inspiring.

Like an adrenaline shot straight into his veins, it made his heart pump a bit faster, made his ears feel as if they were afire, made him feel alive again. Even though muffled and distorted by the brick walls, the voices of the cheering crowd crept into the dressing room like spiders, emerging from every crack in the ceiling, beckoning him to make an appearance. It was his name the crowd shouted, this beast made of benches and human bodies demanding to sate the craving for their champ. It made Victor smile. Finally he was where he always should’ve been.

Pounding his right gloved fist into his left palm, the aging pugilist made his final preparations. He didn’t like the stench of the gym – no sane person could ever relish in the malodor that rested somewhere between year-old pickles and rotting eggs. He didn’t like getting pounded in the face repeatedly for money, didn’t like the painful nights after the fights when he felt like one giant bruise. And he didn’t particularly like the people either, even if they did applaud his every jab, his every hook. People were like stray dogs; they always ran after you if you showed them something fresh and bloody. But this decrepit environment, this arena soaked with sweat and tears and broken dreams, it was the only place that he could call home.

Getting up, Victor Callahan pulled his robe on, the ridiculously large cowl nearly falling over his face. It smelled of bleach and soap, this velvety red shroud, the way it always did before the fight, trying to present something ugly and dirty as nice and clean. They all walked into the ring as winners, riding the high horse of their fame, and they all walked out like train wrecks, limping and jaded. You usually couldn’t tell the winner from the loser by looking at them. It was the feeling inside that made the difference, that rekindled pride you felt once the bell rang for the final time and your arm was lifted high. If nothing else, it meant that you were better than at least one other person in the world. It meant you weren’t a complete loser.

Perhaps that was the reason why Victor was walking towards the ring once again, throwing punches at the invisible opponent as he advanced through the crowd. Life hasn’t been kind to him. Looking back at some forty-odd years of it, the boxer couldn’t say that there were as many ups as they were downs through the course of it. No, it more felt like a steady downwards path with some really slippery slopes on the way, leading him to a new low each passing day. In such a meaningless life, even the fictitious bouts such as this one were a reprieve from the constant depression. He knew he was in the Citadel. He knew that all these people that smiled and bawled and patted his shoulders as he passed by, he knew they weren’t real. But for a man that moved through life aimlessly, wasting one day after another, this little fantasy was enough to snap him out of lethargy. In here, he was never abandoned by his beloved. In here, he never lost the title.

In here, he was king.

[Strickland]

The devil was smiling as Strickland made his way, slowly, to the bar counter. The angel half breed had always hated that smile; made him think of back home, the way sharks and rapists always had that quirk to their mouths that any man not stoned out of his mind could identify. Pissed him off; either seeing that smile again or being reminded of "home", he didn't care which. Just pissed him off, which was a good enough excuse (at least, he thought) to knock this guy's block off. He had the speed, he had the muscle, and he had the motivation, for there'd been more than enough times where the man in front of him had interrupted his "daily" life with promises of more blood and violence. Had it not been for the bag of icy-cold hard cash he jangled in front of the former Sweeper, Jack might've given some serious thought to it to. As it was, the bones of his knuckles pulsed white against the fabric of his skin as he clenched his fist before pulling up a stool and facing the guy with the money.

He was short, and he was bald. Strickland laughed silently as he remembered the first time he'd met the guy so long ago, back in Scara Brae. Back then he'd been a brawler in the Zirnden, making his way with scarred knuckles and broken noses night after night in order to get a decent meal. 'Course, things weren't so different these days, but hell, at least he was getting paid. When this guy had come up to him, he'd thought that baldy here was his next opponent and had nearly hurt himself laughing. Then he'd smiled that devil's smile, and Jack Strickland had shut up real quick.

He'd introduced himself as Arlong. Nothing more to his name, just insisted upon being called Arlong. He'd make note of that fact whenever someone tried calling him "Mister Arlong" or even "Ar-long-nose" after the ridiculously huge shnoz the guy had been cursed to be born with upon his face with a sharp rap to the knees with the wooden cane he carried everywhere with him. Unfortunately, Jack already knew the sting of that cane, and it'd taken two other Zirnden warriors to pull him back after feeling it. Still, whenever he saw that nose he had to resist the urge to laugh. It was that big.

"Hey, hey." Arlong greeted him, and the two exchanged hugs like old buddies in that smokey, small little bar room. Place was crowded, as usual, with the standard assortment of thugs and hookers; a neon sign someone must've stolen from Earth hung outside precariously over the entrance, screaming out the name of the place to people's eyes; Le Rogue, they called it. Jack thought that it might have been called something else from the strategically blacked out letters, but he'd never know, and hell, it's current name fit the place perfectly; only rogues seemed to come here, anyways. If you needed a dark place to do business, Sharon, the owner and barkeep of the place, always had a place for you here. "It's been a bit, Jackie boy."

"I told you, I hate being called that." Strickland muttered irritably, flicking his lighter open to ignite the cigarette he held in between his lips. Nasty habit, he thought to himself, but it worked for him, so why quit? Besides, wasn't like he was going to die from it; one of the perks, he grinned wryly, of being an angel's bastard child.

The bald man playfully punched him on the arm, a light blow that he ignored. "You're such a kiddah," Arlong drawled in that light, easy voice of his that told any sane man not to play cards with the guy. "You got the memo ah sent you, ah take it?"

"If I didn't, I wouldn't be here, now would I?" Jack muttered back just as Sharon came around from serving drinks. She did everything here herself, from making light meals to pouring the drinks to even "entertaining" the guests, and when Jack had first come here he'd been amazed at her ability to multitask. When he'd asked her how she does it, she'd just replied that after awhile you just knew what everyone wanted, and could simply anticipate them before they ordered. Still, it was pretty damn amazing that she did it all herself, and when one new guy had tried roughing her up just a few weeks ago Jack had found that he wasn't the only one she'd managed to impress; that new guy hadn't shown up afterwards, and all the regulars of the bar just sat around with self-satisfied smiles upon their faces.

As she came around she tossed her hair over her shoulder, a full set of crimson locks that looked slightly rust-colored in the smoky light of the bar. She was an older woman; that could be told in a glance. Probably in her early forties or late thirties, he imagined by the lines upon her face. But they were laugh lines, those of a woman who'd enjoyed a good life so far, and instead of making her look unattractive they only increased her femininity, giving her a full, mature look. With an ample bosom and curves that had not died away with age, it was no wonder that most men took to Le Rogue these days. She flashed a pair of dark, sultry eyes at Jack in recognition before she spoke to both of them. "Can I get you boys anything?" She asked, but had already set an ashtray before Strickland and a mug of beer before Arlong; she knew them all too well.

"Thanks, babe." Jack grinned lopsidedly at her and tossed her a gold coin, which she caught deftly and returned with a smile. Arlong only nodded, and she walked away. Jack turned back to the shorter man. "Yeah, got your memo. Was in the pain in the ass, though..."

That sharkish smile came up again as Arlong responded. "Did he interrupt anything?"

"You know damned well he did." Jack jammed the stub of his cigarette into the ashtray with bitter force. "She was young and she was talented, you stubby twit. I couldn't gotten more than a night's pay had your man not burst in."

Arlong was more than used to Jack's insults and shrugged, appearing as if it had all be coincidence. But the angel swore that this guy just had the worst sense of timing, or that the walking dick was just trying to ruin Jack's social life. Either way, it was irritating. "What can ah say, Jack? Ah'm sorry? She must've been good as hell? Better luck next time?" Baldy chuckled, and a flush of anger wen't through Strickland's veins. "It's not my problem, Jack. What is my problem, however, is the next guy you're up against." And with a shuffle of the coat he wore, Arlong pulled out a photograph.

Jack looked down at it closely. He saw there a man with his shirt off, holding one hand in the air high, encased in a boxing glove. He was neither ugly nor attractive; rather, he strayed on the plain side of things, the only distinguishing mark on him being a scar that traveled down his left cheek. He was bulky-looking, from what Strickland could see of his torso, and a couple bruises decorated him here and there like war medals. However, it was his eyes that drew Jack, dark eyes that even in the photograph held something that the brawler could recognize; experience. He looked up at the bald man. "This is who I gotta fight?" He asked rhetorically; he already knew the answer to the first question. However, it was the next he wanted an answer to. "Who is this guy?"

"Victor Callahan. Surprised you haven't heard of him before, to be honest." Arlong lifted one hairless eyebrow, but Strickland stayed silent, so he continued on. "He's a prizefighter and a real catch for you. Likes to fight with his fists, as you might've noticed. Got word that he's heading to the Citadel tomorrow, so you're to get there and fight him, take him down. Think you can do that?"

Everytime, Arlong had asked that question. Everytime, Strickland had said "Yes." without a moment's pause. It hadn't mattered who his opponent was; brawler, martial artist, swordsman, even gunfighter. Jack had managed to bring them down one way or another. That was the way of life, in a dog-eat-dog world like this. But as he stared down at the photograph of this Victor Callahan, he felt doubt cloud his confidence. For this guy held what Jack's past opponents had lacked, that one necessity that any real warrior needed in order to survive; experience.

After a moment, Jack turned and fixed his gray eyes upon Arlong, who stared back in interest. "Yeah, I can. But..."

"But?" Arlong's voice raised a pitch; never before had Jack said this word in response. The bald man's voice was full of slight indignation. "But what?"

"But why am I fighting him?" Jack spat out as he lit another cigarette, the flame from his lighter dancing in the dark room. He clicked and shook it shut, then put it back in his pocked as he leaned his arms on the counter before him. "For that matter, why am I fighting at--"

"Look, you want this?" Arlong snapped, and jingled the bag full of gold coins in front of him. The brawler blinked. Never before had he heard this level of anger in the man's voice. No, not anger; nervousness. Jack nodded yes, and the short man went on. "Then all you have to do is do as we say, alright?"

Strickland blinked again. "We?"

It was Arlong's turn now to do so. "I." He shook his head. "I mean 'I'. Now, go out and take him down. Then--"

"Come back here and get my money. I know, I know." Jack rolled his eyes and stood, putting the stool back as he shoved his hands in his pockets and put another gold piece down. "Thanks, Shair." He told the redhead as he passed her, and she nodded before he went out the door.


~+~


He was smoking when he entered the arena the next day. Had he not seen the guy beforehand, Jack would have been surprised to see that it took place in, off all things, a boxing arena. Everything was in place; the cheering crowd, the dirty-shirt ref standing by the ring. Even the bell to be rung to start the match was there, ready to sound off the bloodfest that would soon begin. And in the middle of this glorious chaos was the man himself, Victor Callahan, throwing punches here and there to the cheers of the false crowd around him. Even though they looked and, to Jack's inner disgust, felt real, the brawler knew that they weren't. They were just illusions, created by the monks of the Citadel to create a deeper feeling for the place.

The arena wasn't cold at all, and even now Jack could feel sweat staining his armpits, soaking through the fabric of his grey shirt. It'd been a hot day as it was as he'd strode through Radasanth on his way to the Citadel, and that combined with the heat that all the "bodies" in the room were supplying made him feel he'd stepped into an oven for this match. Moving forward, he stripped off his shirt in one, quick movement, tossing it to the side before he did the same with his shoes. Ignoring the cheers and boo's of the crowd around him, he stepped into the arena.

The floor beneath his naked toes was firm, and he grinned slightly as he bounced upon them in familiarity. It'd been awhile since he'd stepped into any place that reminded him of Earth, as he'd wanted nothing to do with that realm, but he couldn't help but admit that being here, in a room full of people (false or not) that didn't give a shit who he was or where he came from, was comforting. There was comfort in anonyminity, eh?

Cracking his knuckles to loosen them up, he reached into his pocket and slipped his fingers within the familiar rings of his steel knuckles. His favored weapon, they hadn't failed him before and they wouldn't now. The crosses on each knuckle glinted bright under the low lights of the room, and out of habit Jack crossed himself as well. He had no ties to God, but who knew who might be watching? Now, it was time. He slicked back his gunmetal-colored hair with the sweat from his forehead and grinned slightly at the muscled man before him, looking into those dark eyes once more. Yep, he's been around the block more than a few times. He thought to himself before speaking. "You're Victor Callahan, right?" He'd hate to come all this way just to fight some doppleganger or Victor-wannabe.