In the meantime, the kids had a vacation to finish. Mastering the Backyards was no simple task, and as Richie had already seen, stressing and angsting about it would only lock the gate. His mind needed to be calm, his spirit free. So, for now, they would continue where they left off, scamming the casino and fucking around, having fun. A nest egg and some happy memories would put their minds at ease, and hopefully, Chikita could move on to the next phase of their training upon their return. Their quest was a cavalcade of building blocks to come, and to ensure their Tower of Babel did not collapse midway there, a strong foundation was required. That foundation was a cozy home, and an open heart.
They rounded the remaining two casinos the next day after some rest, and would regroup with Leon later. He and Dai Funka had their show coming up this night, along with the whole of the Valentine Family Circus.
"My family would love to meet you." Leon said, dangling Cuppy by his strings. "Ever consider showmanship?"
"You have beautiful eyes." Cuppy said, admiring the soft, feminine blue orbs set in Leon's flawless face.
"He didn't say no." Leon said to himself.
…
The afternoon was spent at the cyberpunk casino. The entire was a neon-lit metropolis to look like the outside, with a TV screen dome roof playing a perpetual cycle of simulated rainfall. Richie watched Cuppy play a few roulette rounds, guiding the ball into its predetermined goal, but inconsistently, to minimize suspicion. Though, it was hard to tell behind the attendant's red-eyed visor whether he suspected foul play or not. Though Cuppy took a few falls, the overall net gain was a plus. Richie sat himself at a railed-off bat on a raised platform, styled in the likeness of a street-side ramen shop in some seedy dystopian underbelly greasy with pollution runoff-laden rain gutters and steaming sewer vents. There was something to be said for the sheer effort put into the atmosphere.
"Deluxe noodle soup with extra protein, please." Richie flashed his cash.
The burly man behind the counter nodded, disappeared into the back where a cacophony of frantic and angry yelling in Chinese occurred, presumably between him and a cook or busboy, and then returned with a giant steaming bowl of gorgeous ramen.
Richie snapped his chopsticks apart and smiled happily. As he chowed down, his eyes drifted around the bar area, and he saw a few things out of place. Several, well-sculpted guys in various breeds of gi and combat fatigues were intermixed into the crowd. They weren't personal in costume, the theme was incongruous, and even had they been at the pagoda-styled park, there was no unifying geographical or cultural commonality. Richie saw a man in a taekwondo uniform with a taut black belt, another wearing the colors of a kenpo practitioner, and another with a pair of eskrima sticks tucked into his waistband. He recognized a heavyweight boxing champion, a posse of karate, MMA, and grappling masters, and some random Bruce Lee look-alike. A huge, broad-shouldered African man with a Hercules-like build stood in only gray trunks and arm bands.
"Is that a fucking Senegalese laamb wrestler?" Richie blinked.
From how far exactly had all of these big tough guys gathered? Richie even knew some of the big shot names to tie to the familiar faces.
"What's up?" Freyja asked, plopping down beside Richie and slouching.
"Check it out. Martial artists are popping out of the woodwork." he pointed around. "I've seen some of these guys on TV."
"Maybe they're just on vacation too? Or, maybe there are some prize fights scheduled this week?" Freyja asked.
"Nuh uh on both accounts. Look at that," he pointed out a bald Chinese man in an orange robe. "When's the last time you saw a shaolin monk in a casino? Never, because it doesn't happen. There's only one reason for a bunch of fighters to be congregating in one place like this, and that's if there's a fighting venue nearby. I checked the itinerary, there aren't any battles pegged for tonight or all of the week, aside from pro wrestling melodrama." Richie rolled his eyes. "So, there's got to be a fight club hidden here somewhere."
Freyja held her chin, and looked at Richie curiously.
"What?" Richie asked.
"You're actually pretty smart, huh?" Freyja gave a small, condescending smile.
"The hell's that supposed to mean?!" Richie bitched.
"So, business or pleasure? Think they put money on the fisticuffs?" Freyja asked.
"Let's find out." Cuppy chirped.
"Ah!" Richie jumped. "Where did you come from?"
Cuppy set his giant bag of winnings down on the bar and ordered himself an apple juice with a little umbrella in it. "Keep an eye on one of the fighters, see where they go."
"The monk seems easy enough to track, orange catches the eye and all that." Richie said, watching the man closely.
"Keep your distance, I doubt it's that easy if it's underground." Freyja cautioned.
Sure enough, as Richie followed the monk, and a handful of his companions, down an unmarked hall hidden at the back, he was blocked off by some bouncers.
"VIP only, pipsqueak." one of them pat his head.
"Says who?!" Richie growled.
"Says our tasers and a swift security response. Turn around." one of them folded their arms.
Richie ambled back to the bar, grumpy.
"Figured as much." Freyja said.
"Assholes. I want to see the fights!" he grumbled.
Cuppy visibly thought stuff to himself, adopting the thinker pose.
"Hmm. There's your ticket." Cuppy tapped Richie on the shoulder and pointed to a table that had just filled up with boisterous, muscle bound dudes in muscle shirts and military fatigues.
"Come on baby, let's shake it up!" a man in a blue undershirt, ready to burst at the seams from his pecks, pulled a giggling, beautiful blond woman in a red dress to him. The table, crammed with frothing, overflowing beer mugs, wings, and nachos, was seated throughout with other hooting and hollering jarheads with varying degrees of swollen muscles and bad haircuts, and their fetching girlfriends.
"What are you on about?" Richie asked.
Without answering, Cuppy dropped down from his bar stool and strolled over to the table.
"Oh this should be good." Freyja's tail wagged.
"Excuse me." Cuppy chirped to the table.
The military bros and their lovely ladies all turned to Cuppy, with bemused, curious, or hostile expressions.
"What do you want, kid?" a man in a green jacket with a dog tag necklace and a blond mohawk asked gruffly. Sitting on his lap was a young woman with bobbed black hair, pearl earrings, and a knockout figure accentuated by a bright green slit maxi dress with a cleavage window.
"I'd like a word with the gal." Cuppy smiled cheerfully, and stepped forward.
The soldier's arm coiled tighter around his girlfriend's waist, protectively. Nevertheless, she humored Cuppy and bent over to let him whisper into her ear.
Richie and Freyja exchanged glances.
The woman giggled, stood from the man's lap, and let Cuppy take her hand. She walked with him to the bar with Richie and Freyja, leaving the veteran's table speechless.
"Nice dress." Cuppy told his date, and bought her an apple juice.
"I- b- what the FUCK?" the soldier bellowed.
He and his pack of wardogs scrambled from their roost and surrounded Cuppy and Richie, as Freyja distanced herself to a far stool. “I’m not really a part of this, so I’m just gonna, yeah.” she said.
“Get back here, Gwen!” the jilted soldier said.
“You punks!” one of the guys added.
“Ok Richie, go take care of them.” Cuppy nodded to Richie.
“Wait, what? Why am I involved?!” Richie balked.
“Son of a bitch!” the man charged at Richie.
Richie growled, shrugged, and leaped from his stool, kicking out a leg and tripping the charging bull. The man tumbled down hard, banging into more stools and knocking them over. There was silence a moment, as if letting the audacity sink in, and then he turned back to Richie and past him, calling in for the standby reinforcements. “Get him!”
“We’re going to mess up that face of yours, pretty boy, and then see if the chicks go for ya!” they descended, circling and swinging.
Richie backdashed, trampling over the man already on the floor, stomping the back of his head and planting his face into the tile, and crushing his outstretched hand on the way out. He dashed and swayed between stools and tables, letting the reckless brutes pinball into the impediments, crashing and stumbling. He rolled over a table forward, and slammed his forehead into one of the men’s noses, crunching it. As hands came up to clutch his crushed, bleeding nose, his gut was left unprotected, and Richie whirled on the table as if breakdancing, planting a heel in said gut. The man doubled over, and Richie leap-frogged over him, grabbing his collar as he descended. He twisted the stunned, battered man into the way of one of his compatriat’s shoulder charge, bowling both of them into a rail. Ducking out of the way of a newcomer’s punch, Richie threw a leg back to kick in the backside of the tackler’s leg, dropping him. He then wove in between the boxer’s fists, unleashed a flurry of quick jabs, and countered with a right cross across the jaw that dropped the man. Another grabbed him from behind, putting him in a full nelson.
“Kick the son of a bitch!” the brawler said.
The man who had been run over stood up, cracked out his knuckles, and volleyball’d Richie’s head back and forth between his fists, then planted an uppercut in his gut. Richie planted a heel in his crotch and pushed him back, driving the man holding him backward and over, rolled free of the grappler, and kicked him hard in the ribs. He ducked under a thrown chair and nailed the instigator with a superman punch, dropping him. Another came in out of left field, swinging a broken bottle. Richie dashed side to side, shattered the bottle against a table with an ax kick, grabbed the man, and fell backward in a suicide throw, tossing the man over the rail, out of the bar platform, and crashlanding on a slot machine.
Surveying the moaning, groaning remnants, Richie took a running leap at the man who had performed the botched shoulder tackle, and landed a flying sidekick in his face. He went rolling onto the casino floor, blood and teeth flying.
Richie dropped his shoulders, caught his breath, and looked around the stunned casino area.
“Five, six - seven military meatheads. There. We finished?” Richie spat, cracking out his neck.
The men were all moaning and writhing on the floor in agony, half-conscious, concussed, and/or bleeding.
The bartender at the noodle stand dropped a fancy bowl that shattered at his feet. His, the girls’, and everyone else in range’s faces were slack jawed and horrified.
A few security guards with batons and stun guns filed into the area, and one of their apparent supervisors held another back as he reached for his radio. He shook his head, vetoing the unspoken decision to call in reinforcements.
“Back off, they started it!” Richie growled in anticipation as the guards cautiously approached him.
“Of course, yes, no need to do anything brash, we simply need to speak to you and fill out a little incident report, that’s all.” the man at the front gestured uncertainly, trying to deescalate the situation.
“Horseshit!” Richie barked.
Guards descended on him, dogpiling the boy and zapping him in the ribs.
“What was the goal, here?” Freyja asked, crab-walking her way back toward Cuppy and leaning closer to him with a confused, but ultimately unconcerned tone.
Cuppy pointed to corners of the casino where men in baggy black suits and wide-brimmed hats watched on, eyes intrigued.
“Mobsters. Richie wanted to find the fight club, they’ll drag him down to it. He’s a hidden gem to throw into the ring now that they’ve seen a proper demonstration of what he can do. Those tags and fatigues - those guys Richie disciplined are all Navy Seals. You typically don’t just knock those guys down like bowling pins. They won’t throw Richie out over this, they’re going to give him a job. He just doesn’t know it yet.” Cuppy said.
“Ahhh.” Freyja nodded. “Clever.”
Gwen glared at Freyja, folding her arms.
“What?” Freyja turned her nose at Cuppy’s new girlfriend.
“Fucking unhand me, you limp-dicked sacks of shit, I’ll snap your fingers and rip out your prostates!” Richie frothed at the mouth, spazzing out and roaring as he was manhandled, picked up, and carted off by the security response. One of the mafia watch dogs pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes and joined the rear of the procession, following Richie’s transport back toward the hall he had originally gone down.
"Should I follow him?" Freyja asked.
"Yep." Cuppy nodded.
"Aces." Freyja nodded.
She held back a bit, but let her keen sense of smell guide her, tracking Richie. Soon, she came to the hall Richie had been carted down. The two bouncers were scratching their heads, bemused.
"Guess the boss is gonna hammer a hand or two?" one of them asked.
Freyja nonchalantly strode toward them, aiming to pass between the broad-shouldered human walls.
"Hold it, little lady, washroom's the other way." they grabbed her shoulders.
"I'll pee where I want." Freyja grabbed each man by the head, then slammed them together.
The bodyguards collapsed, unconscious.
Freyja daintily stepped over them, sniffing at the red-carpeted floor, and followed it down a set of marble stairs until she came to a heavy iron door with one of those slotted windows up top where guards decided whether or not to admit guests into their sketchy night clubs and shit.
“Only one way he could have gone.” Freyja said, strolled up to the door, and daintily knocked.
The slot opened, and she saw the partially-hidden face of one of the bikers she had mauled back in the alley a few nights ago.
“Hiya choom, how’re the finger stumps?” Freyja smiled sweetly.
She saw cold sweat and terror instantly bloom on the man’s face, before he let out a PTSD-fueled scream at the top of his lungs, and slammed the visor shut. Freyja heard extra bars slide into place on the other side of the door.
“Oh that’s precious.” Freyja chuckled.
On the other side, the man shook his buddy, the red-haired scrapper who had also had his shit wrecked that night, and inelegantly blubbered into his confused face.
“Slow down, man, speak clearly!” Redhead said.
“It’s the fuckin’ bitch! You know, glowing eyes, fire, scary! The fuckin’ thing! Bark!” he rambled, stumbling over his words.
“What?” Redhead raised an eyebrow. “You hittin’ the crack pipe again?”
He strolled up to the door and opened the slot, peering through.
“Hi boys, can I borrow a cup of sugar?” Freyja winked.
The man slammed the visor closed as well.
“Oh sweet jesus, that fucking monster found us. Go tell the boss!” he said, and reached for his sidearm.
The steel door dented in once, twice - bearing Freyja’s blown-in footprints - and then flew off its hinges, slamming into the both of them and throwing them down a small series of steps.
“Not very neighborly, are you guys?” Freyja waltzed in.
It was a dark, slate-gray room reminiscent of an old power plant, spartan and dark. Freyja walked down the steps, came across the two agonized gangsters still lying under the busted door, and traipsed across it, eliciting groans as the weight further bore down on the poor bastards. “Should have just let me in, boys.”
The sounds of excited cheering, curses, and drunken hollering led her to a circular room lit by buzzing fluorescent lights, and crowded with a veritable horde of mixed sleazebags, gangsters, and the odd volunteer fighters standing on the sidelines. They were circled around an octagonal pit with a dirt floor, and its concrete walls lined with wooden planks and boards. The spectators were pressed against the rim, waists pushed into the rail, throwing their fists into the air, spilling drinks, and waving winnings or money they had put on the matches around. The atmosphere was rowdy and festive, like a modern day gladiatorial arena.
“Pit fights. Fun!” Freyja jumped onto a dusty crate to get a look over the heads of the crowd, and saw a pair of combatants squaring off in the ring. A wifebeater-clad man with a grizzled face and gray stubble threw haymakers and managed to get his opponent, a kickboxer, in a headlock, before the latter slipped out and knocked his lights out with a swift retaliatory kick to the temple. Wifebeater went down like a bag of bricks. The crowd erupted into cheers from the bet winners and pure spectators, and boos from the bet losers. Money swiftly changed hands, and a pair of medics carted the unconscious fighter away on a stretcher. The unseen announcer called the match and put the spectators on notice for the next round, advising them to prepare their wagers.
The biker gang leader whose hog she had shattered to pieces knocked on the box Freyja straddled. She looked at him.
“Werewolf. Why, uh, why are you here?” he asked. “Don’t tell me the antique didn’t pay the bill?”
“Oh, no, this is just the world being a small world. I didn’t come here to finish you lowlives off.” Freyja waved dismissively.
“Then what do you want?” the gangster asked.
“A friend of mine came through here. Rarely-seen redheaded Asian, red jacket and scarf, bad attitude, you get the idea.” Freyja said.
“The kid who caused a ruckus upstairs? Yeah, he’s here alright. They were about to toss him in the ring and see how well he matches the hype.” the gangster said. He pointed.
Richie was held under each arm, a buff enforcer on either side of him, dragged forward to the edge of the ring.
“Let's see how you do here, hot shot.” one of them said, before they unceremoniously dumped Richie into the pit.
Richie, grunting, rolled into a crouch, and stood, looking around the arena with a hawk-like gaze.
“Just as well. He wanted to see the bloodsport up close, this works out fine.” Freyja smirked.
“You’re not worried your little buddy is going to get smeared across the dirt?” the biker asked.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“I wouldn’t bet on it.” Freyja said.
A man with a sculpted bare chest, emblemed by a tattoo of a coiling snake wrapping around his chest and torso, dropped down into the ring. He had a leering grin and a long, pleated ponytail that went to his waist. He crossed his arms and chuckled at Richie, who only glared quietly.
“Kick his ass!” more than a few spectators jeered to their local fan-favorite.
The man walked up to Richie and yanked on his scarf, tugging it, pulling Richie back and forth like a schoolyard bully dicking around.
“What are you supposed to be?” he asked Richie incredulously.
Richie didn’t answer. Instead, he batted the man’s hand away, grabbed his ponytail, and yanked him forward by it, planting his palm in the man’s face. His nose crunched in, his lip split, his eye blackened, and a tooth went flying. Richie retracted his palm, slick with his opponent’s blood, and let the man fall slack, knees brushing across the dirt as the unconscious man was held up and dangled by his ponytail. Richie shook the man back and forth by his hair the same way the goon had shaken Richie by his scarf. After losing interest, Richie let the ponytail slide through his grip, and the man sank face-down into the ground, blood pooling around his mouth.
The crowd was silent, aside from a few murmurs.
A man in a brown vest, with a waterfall of straight silver hair narrowed his eyes on the ring.
"The new guy is good." he said. One of the other spectators, standing beside the silver-haired man, gulped.
Richie's opponent was taken away on a stretcher.
"Yoohoo!" Freyja stood on the rim of the pit, waving to Richie. "Be a good cash cow and make us lots of money, ok?"
Richie balked. "Freyja?! What are you doing here?"
"Watching your fights. Duh." Freyja said.
The gang leader stood beside her, arms folded.
A man in a black gi dropped in next. Freyja plopped down a huge stack of bills. "I'm betting all this on the ginger kid." she told the bookie at his desk.
"No pressure or anything!" Richie snapped.
Then, he turned to face his opponent. Cracking out his neck and knuckles, Richie assumed his stance.
Over a few hours, the jeers and skepticism turned to thrilled cheering. Most stopped betting against Richie as he stacked up fourteen thrashed opponents back to back. Freyja cheered as her stack of churro funds practically climbed to the ceiling. And, a curious thing happened to Richie as well.
He found himself having fun. It was satisfying to weave out of the frantic punches and kicks of warriors with years more experience on him, and manhandle them like children. He was made acutely aware of just how sharp the difficulty curve of his life had been. He had been fighting honest to god monsters and freaks of nature nonstop for a while now, and it showed. He highly doubted any of the men he faced in this ring had gone up against any obstacles half as harrowing. After tanking shots from a manticore, free climbing a vast tower, and powering through wholesale chunks of his soul getting bitten out, fist fights with other human beings were light exercise. He didn't notice the first hint of his rapid growth back when he had caught Skylar's punch and scared off the bro pack, but he realized it now, the quantifiable difference in the level he had been, and the level he was at now.
"Level up!" he laughed as he brought a heel atop the skull of his fifteenth opponent, making them eat dirt.
"Winner - Richie!" the announcer called out.
Richie discarded his scarf and jacket, body slick with sweat, and exposed his cooling Azure dragons for all to see. He flexed his muscles, and his shoulders seemingly engorged, making the serpents quiver. Richie clenched a fist, smirking.
"Who's next?" he asked.
Up until now, fighting had been a matter of survival, a means to an end. But now, after seeing the idiotic, manly dedication to sticking out a battle for nothing more than its own primal novelty, Richie saw the allure and seductive call of the warrior spirit. It was a nice back massage to his ego and sense of self-actualization to see how many strong people he had already surpassed, like the rungs of the ladder he climbed to the heavens.
The silver-haired man had a little smirk on his face. "Not bad. I like this kid."
"And you are?" Freyja nosed in.
"Shensu. They called me the Thunderfist." he said.
"Why's that?" Freyja asked.
Shensu ran his fingers through his hair, blue sparks connecting into crackling blue arcs of electricity that frizzled his hair up a moment before falling again. A blue dot of electricity continued buzzing on Shensu's outstretched finger for a few moments.
"Oh fun!" Freyja gave a few small claps.
Shensu bent over the rail, watching Richie. "Must be his first time in the limelight. I know that new feeling all too well. It's intoxicating. What do you think, Rugal? Fine catch, ain't he?" Shensu asked the biker leader.
"He's a quality fighter alright. Needs a promoter." he said.
Freyja grinned. "Well I'm his agent, so let's talk."
After some talk, they shook hands.
-
Richie had a towel around his neck, and stretched out a bit in the locker room before being gifted a surprise basket of fried chicken.
"Werewolf tells me you like chicken." the biker said.
Richie's feral dive into the basket was answer enough.
"So, listen, why don't you perform here a few nights a week? You'll go places." he said.
"You holding me prisoner like a pit dog?" Richie asked.
"I'm giving you a job. My gang has it good with Carnival Top, we've got connections. The pit kicks up a percent of what it makes on fights, the prim and proper look the other way. You saw what your freaky demon girlfriend raked in, you can become rich overnight." he said.
"She's not my girlfriend." Richie said. "And I'm not for sale."
"Actually, we already have a contract." Freyja interjected.
"Don't pimp me out!" Richie growled. He held his chin. He was enjoying the adoration and approval he was long denied, and it did beat scrounging up pickpocket pittances for a living.
Fuck it, why not.
"Alright, I'll humor you." Richie said.
-
"And in this corner, dark horse brawler coming out of nowhere on a hot, eighteen body count win streak, the scrappy, the dragon-clad, the - psst. What's your ring name, kid?" the announcer asked.
"Huh?" Richie asked.
"Something flashy to call you, think of something." he whispered quickly.
"Azure Rider?" Richie shrugged.
The announcer made a face like he had bitten into a lemon.
"-Richie!" he announced to the crowd.
"Why did you ask me, then?" Richie barked.
-
Meanwhile, upstairs…
"What the-!?" the hooded Seal who had met with Mason gaped as he took in the wreckage of the bar, floor strewn with the half-conscious bodies of his war buddies.
He was broad-shouldered and solidly built, with a thick corded neck. A strong jaw protruded from his hood as he flung it back, revealing a squared-off face with soulful blue eyes and a grisly scar across the bridge of his nose. A cropped blond haircut was topped by a red beret, a personal affect apart from his rank and position. He stepped forward, heavy boots making imposing, authoritative steps across the wooden steps.
He bent down and cradled the muscleshirt whose girlfriend Cuppy had charmed away from him.
"Hey, who did this to you?" the big man asked.
-
Richie's fist planted itself in the unfortunate solar plexus of opponent #20. The MMA fighter doubled over, clutching his stomach, threw up, and fell down.
"Winner - Richie!" the announcer cheered, followed by the audience.
"Not bad." Shensu said, standing on the rail as the unconscious victim was carted away.
Richie basked in the glow of the crowd cheering his name.
An army boot stomped behind Rugal, who whirled and saw the scarred face of the Navy Seal, glaring under his hood.
"C-Captain Thratta!" the biker gulped. "W-what brings you here?"
"I've got bigger fish to fry than your little sideshow, so don't soil your breeches. I have business with one of your guests." the man said.
Freyja's ear perked and folded. Shensu's eyes widened in recognition. "Well I'll be. John Thratta." he whistled.
The man approached the rim of the fight pit and called down to Richie. "Hey you punk!"
The arena went silent. A few among the audience dropped their bottles.
Richie looked up. "Yeah?"
The man sneered. "Are you the one who beat up my men upstairs?" he thumbed up at the ceiling.
"Who wants to know?" Richie said.
"Captain John Thratta, US Navy." he said.
"Am I supposed to know who you are?" Richie scratched his ear.
"You will." Thratta said, eyes hard.
"Sounds like you've got another taker, Richie!" Freyja waved. She looked around. "Hey, why'd the betting stop?"
"Because," Rugal gulped. "There are some bets you just don't take."
"Miss Freyja," Shensu looked to her, "I suggest you have your friend there pull out of this one."
"You sniff some oil down here to steal? Come on down, sailor, I'll gladly give you a beatdown just like the rest of your jingoistic meathead dogs!" Richie growled.
"You don't know me." Thratta said calmly, patiently, even.
"Cops are gangsters with badges, and soldiers are cops with passports. You holier-than-thou 'Merica-lovin' attack dogs are all the same, thugs playing hero." Richie snarled.
The man dropped into the pit and threw back his hood, locking eyes with Richie.
"Let's do this." Richie smirked, adopting a stance.
Thratta only continued to stare at him impassively. Richie realized how quiet the crowd had become, and he looked around in sudden uneasiness. Why did the cheering stop?
He caught Rugal's eye, the biker rapidly giving "don't" signals.
The atmosphere has changed completely. Freyja thought. Who's this guy supposed to be?
She heard a few tentative whispers float around the club.
"-thought he was still in Thailand…" someone muttered.
"-Low…" someone else said.
"Low?" Freyja asked Shensu.
"Akkaratt Low." he said. "Muay Thai Berserker of Bangkok, also known as the Rhino Breaker."
"Rhino Breaker?" Freyja raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Because, as the rumor goes, he killed a charging rhino in a direct clash with a single flying knee strike to the head, overpowering the horn. Huge uproar with anti-poaching activists." Shensu said. "Thratta down there spent some time in Thailand, whether on business or vacation I'm not sure. Heard they crossed paths and locked horns."
Freyja looked back at the arena, sweating a little. An exaggeration, surely.
Right?
"What's wrong? Cat got your tongue?" Richie asked.
"You're an arrogant little snot." Thratta said. "If you're really a competent warrior, then you should be able to see the difference in our abilities before we even trade blows. You're no match for me, kid."
Richie snapped.
"Yeah? Well come put your money where your mouth is!" - and dashed toward the Seal.
Thratta entered a kickboxing stance, shifting his weight oddly, a large, concealed object pushing out the back of his jacket like folded wings constrained by leather.
You have no idea just how big the world is. Time for a wake up call. Thratta thought.
Richie threw a punch toward Thratta's face. A massive hand came up and caught the punch, stopping it dead in its tracks with a sound like a thunderclap. The man's expression was unchanged as he squeezed, and Richie grit his teeth in pain, knuckles cracking. He wrenched his hand away and spun, throwing a back kick. The Seal sidestepped him, eyes tracking the foot. Richie plowed forward in a flurry of punches and kicks, trying desperately to make something stick, as the man blocked, dodged, or redirected every single blow.
"Hold still!" - Richie stomped on the Seal's foot, holding him in place.
The man raised an eyebrow, grunting, and Richie planted an uppercut in the man's stomach.
He didn't budge an inch. His core was unyielding, like a solid wall. Richie looked up slowly, eyes wide.
No way. We can't be THIS mismatched.
He threw a right cross at Thratta's jaw, but the man uppercut the underside of his wrist, deflecting the strike, and retaliated with a mighty fist to Richie's stomach. The boy folded over, dropping his guard and gasping, the wind knocked out of him. He wobbled on his feet, knees shaking, struggling not to go down. The man stepped behind Richie and chopped the back of his neck, an unyielding ridgehand that felt like a blunt guillotine. Stars exploded into Richie's vision as he was forced down onto his hands and knees.
No! I will NOT be manhandled like this! Richie forced himself to retain consciousness, springing up and back into a handstand to lay a kick on Thratta. The soldier blocked with his forearm and jumped over Richie's followup sweep kick, then continued gliding backward as Richie leaped into an advancing onslaught of kicks. The soldier caught a leg, holding it aloft, and kicked Richie's standing shin, taking him off his feet and landing hard. Richie rolled backward onto his feet again, and stood crouched, panting and sweating.
"What's wrong, kid? Run out of steam already?" Thratta asked.
"Shut up!" Richie charged forward like an enraged bull.
The moment you lose your composure, you've already lost. Thratta sighed inwardly.
He planted a sidekick in Richie's gut. The heavy military boot practically left a footprint. Richie coughed violently, then was knocked swiftly to the ground with a backfist. It felt like a firecracker went off in his temple.
"I'm not impressed. I'll have to discipline my boys for letting themselves get trashed by a mouthy pup." Thratta folded his arms.
He turned and began to walk away when he felt a hand clutching at his hood. He whirled, ripping free of Richie, who stood, covered in a cold sweat, eyes full of equally cold hatred.
"I… didn't… tap out!" he struggled.
Thratta sighed and held his forehead. "Listen, if you don't want to get hurt, play dead and don't get up. I'm out of your league."
Richie roared and rushed in again.
He was rapidly pummeled by a barrage of boxing blows pounding his sides and stomach, culminating in swift hooks to either side of the jaw, and a vicious uppercut to the underside. His head rocked back, and his dragons glowed dimly a moment, the only thing keeping their host conscious. Richie's kicks were sidestepped and ducked under, and a full-bodied roundhouse was caught. The man closed his arms like a vice around Richie's leg and twisted to the ground, like a crocodile performing a death roll. Richie tumbled and spun, then was grabbed, one hand clutching his hair, the other the seat of his pants, and tossed out of the ring. He crashed into the crowd of spectators, knocking some of them over. He dove back into the ring with a flying sidekick, blocked wholesale by Thratta's crossed guard.
The Seal redirected another punch and twisted Richie's arm behind his back, wrenching his neck with the other arm.
"You can either knock it off right now, or I'm going to dislocate your shoulder. Make your choice." the Seal said.
Richie bit Thratta's forearm, eliciting a pained grunt, and broke free.
"Why you little shit!" Thratta growled as Richie tackled him against the pit wall.
Twin fists came down on Richie's back, and a front kick to the diaphragm threw him into the far wall.
The audience continued to wince and groan as the aggravated Captain swiftly and efficiently beat Richie to a pulp. Freyja's fangs protruded, her hackles raised, and she emitted a low growl in the back of her throat. Shensu gave her a look of pity, while Rugal watched on in horror, tearing at his hair.
Richie, face bruised, swollen, and leaking blood from the mouth, threw another mindless, desperate punch.
Thratta turned around, letting the fist ostensibly strike his back. The skin of Richie's knuckles broke and he sprained his wrist. He cried out in pain, stumbling back. Thratta threw his jacket aside, revealing the object that had been concealed beneath.
A bigass nautical anchor was worn on his back like a backpack affixed with thick rope, wrapped around either prong behind the waist, and running under Thratta's armpits, padded with strapped pieces of dark leather. The ropes knotted through the eye of the anchor behind the man's neck, and the effect was that the man stood, back-heavy, with a deadweight whose wingspan from bill to bill was as wide as his shoulders. The color was a smooth jet black, and the composition was heavy and solid, steel in all likelihood. At an estimate, Richie's mind, recovering from the sudden shock of what he was seeing, placed its weight at 600-700 pounds. He resisted the urge to piss himself as he felt his stomach drop.
The boy scout was handing Richie his ass while weighed down by this bulky piece of shit. Its mass, awkward proportions, and inaccessibility on Thratta's back made it a thoroughly impractical weapon, so the only logical conclusion Richie's mind could come to was that the man wore his anchor as a deliberate handicap, a constant, passive form of extreme weight training. So much as walking with such a burden was a thought that made Richie's back ache at the thought of it, and Freyja could practically hear her own vertebrae shriek in imagined agony.
The man's body was a Herculean build of sculpted muscles, his upper body as dense and solid as the anchor he wore. The man's lats were a fan of organic subcutaneous armor, and his swelling deltoids groaned like the hull of a creaking ship. He flexed a bicep, and it seemed his skin could barely contain the bulge. It was like looking at a gorilla's arm.
What is this guy, a fucking action figure?! Richie gulped.
The man turned to face Richie again, as the latter clutched and rotated his wrist. Captain John Thratta wore military suspenders with combat fatigue pants, but no proper shirt under his discarded cloak, revealing abs for days.
Damn, those pecks are flawless. Richie thought, then immediately scolded himself for sounding like Chikita.
His otherwise flawless bodybuilder frame was marred by a few nasty scars - knife and bullet wounds, and a blossom of thick, fibrous scar tissue over his lower right side, from under arm to hip.
The soldier tilted his head toward Richie, blue eyes piercing him, broad nose flaring nostrils like a beast giving warning.
"You've lost. Throw in the towel." he said
Richie grit his teeth. "Fat chance!" he flew at Thratta.
Blood and spit splashed high into the air.
Richie powered through the beating, throwing a roundhouse kick toward Thratta's temple. The imposing man dropped an elbow on the side of Richie's ankle. Richie screamed and fell back, stumbling on his good leg.
"Enough." Thratta said. He slipped free of the ropes and cast his anchor aside. It landed with a heavy thud that practically made the ground shake.
I am NOT this weak! Richie slapped the sides of his own swollen face. I can't lose to some smug military dog! Not to another mindless enforcer for the craptastic system that failed my mom and me! I will NEVER forgive the likes of him for being glorified thugs above the law, while people like me get hunted down like animals for the lives of crime we have as the only other recourse from death in a gutter! I won't lose to him. Not somebody like HIM! Richie raged.
His eyes turned to draconic slit pupils. Did he dare announce himself here for all to see, as a bearer of Azure Dragon runes? Would rumor travel and alert those who had pursued him? Those who might still be pursuing him? Richie was on the brink of not caring. Why should he not bust out his full arsenal to bring down his opponent, now that they had cast aside their handicap?
He opted for a compromise with himself.
I'll just activate Level 2 for a split second, dash behind him, and end this shitshow in one punch. Richie resolved. He steadied his breathing and crouched at the ready.
Thratta shook his head slowly, silently warning Richie not to try anything.
Richie's eyes widened.
Level 2! he gave the order within his mind. His legs swelled with muscle, electric impulses streaked through his body like opening switchgates, and he flashed out of sight. Those in the crowd could have scarcely blinked, as Richie was there one moment, and gone the next. He couldn't weave in between the frames of everyone's sight at once, so while some saw an afterimage, others instead saw a blur of blue and orange instantly circle around Thratta and bear down on him. Richie saw everything in slow motion as he dashed behind Thratta, fist cocked, ready to deck the back of his skull in an overhead, downward punch. Dust particles lazily floated about on the gust kicked up, and the cries and gasps of the crowd seemed to stretch out for a long time. Richie's skin pickled, able to feel the arrival of the sound waves as they reached him, one at a time.
Thratta's face turned toward Richie as the boy was already mid-swing, body and momentum committed to the attack. Thratta spun around, moving normally, no, swiftly in that elongated interim of time, relative to Richie's speed.
In fact, Thratta surpassed Richie's speed. His blue eyes narrowed on Richie, like targeting reticles.
He can track me?! Richie thought. Emergency signals blared through his being, but it was too late.
Thratta's fist crashed into Richie's face as the rest of the boy's body kept going out from under him, and he was thrown out of his super speed dash onto his back. He saw stars, and his vision faded in and out of darkness. He smelled the metallic tang of his own blood, dripping from Thratta's knuckles, and heard the drops like fireworks where they landed.
Thratta gave an aside glance as he heard a sharp ripping and scraping sound - Freyja's claws gouged the rim of the pit as her hateful growl crescendoed.
Richie's dragons echoed murky voices into his hazy consciousness.
Our faculties are failing. Your stamina is plummeting rapidly, and our abilities are shutting down.
Richie forced a swollen eye open, nostrils flaring, teeth bared like a wild animal.
"There's no shame in losing to me." Thratta said in a pitying voice.
That did it.
Richie struggled as hard as he could to stand, body shaking, fists clenching. He spat blood on Thratta's boot, and the soldier narrowed his eyes, sighing.
"If nothing else, I praise your tenacity." he said, "But this is as far as determination alone can take you."
He grabbed Richie painfully by his ginger hair, wrenching him to his feet.
"Something I picked up abroad." Thratta said, entering a muay thai stance.
Those heavy boots left the ground as John Thratta flew forward, burying his knee deep into Richie's stomach. The boy folded over the Navy Seal's knee and was carried back as they both flew in an arc. The wind was knocked out of him, arms and legs flapping against the drag of their conjoined low-altitude flight, his vision going conclusively gray and then black. The flying knee strike sandwiched Richie against the wall of the pit, the wooden boards cracking and breaking under his back. His body reflexively heaved, and a slew of vomit and hot bile sprayed from his open jaws, blanketing a wide circle of ground. Thratta, after a moment, retracted his knee, leaving a dark purple imprint in Richie's abdomen. The boy folded forward and flopped to the ground, having passed out this time.
The fight was over.
Freyja stood on the rim, tufts of black fur blowing in a hot wind, face wrinkled and wolf-nose scrunched, her fangs bared.
"Bastard!" she roared, and lobbed a massive, crackling orange ball of hellfire at Thratta, to the shocked cries and screams of the spectators.
The Seal grabbed his discarded anchor and hefted it, putting it between his body and the oncoming sphere of flame, holding with one arm like a shield. The flames exploded against the cold hard steel, briefly superheating the nautical implement and causing it to glow an angry red. Thratta's palm hissed like bacon on a griddle as steam rose from where he held the burning anchor. He twitched an eyebrow, but otherwise paid it no mind.
"At ease, miss, your friend is alive. I'm not about to murder a kid in some meaningless brawl." Thratta said. "I hit a hidden pressure point in his core. He'll be out for a couple days, but he's fine."
The audience cried out again, and Freyja gasped.
"Richie…" she said quietly.
Thratta turned around. The boy was standing, arms still in the guard position, but his eyes were closed and his head lilting downward.
"He's not even conscious." Thratta said.
His anchor cooled, and he affixed it to his back once more, then retrieved his coat. He looked at the boy, knocked out cold, but still raring to go.
Thratta sighed. "You've got grit, kid. The strength you're born with isn't enough, though. You're a big fish in a very small pond. Go out and see the world for yourself. Throw yourself into it. Struggle. Survive."
He vacated the fight pit and began walking away. "True strength is forged in experience."
Freyja watched him go, her ears folded back. "Forged?" she repeated, the word seeming somehow prophetic on her tongue.
As the door closed, Richie's body gave out, and he collapsed. Freyja jumped into the pit and caught him, his head lulling against her shoulder.
"It's ok, Richie, you did good." she pat the back of his head. "We're practically rich now. You can rest easy for a bit."
Rugal watched her carry Richie out of the pit. He fished his jacket for a cigar and chomped it, sighing. "My boys and I never stood a chance against you, did we?" he asked Freyja.
He flicked his lighter, and it spat out a few insubstantial sparks. Freyja tossed a candle flame onto Rugal's cigar, giving him a light.
"Not a chance in Hell." she nodded, giving a bittersweet grin.
"How's your back?" he asked.
"How's your bike?" Freyja sassed.
Rugal cackled.