Mutant Fight Club: If someone says stop, goes limp, taps out, the fight is over.

[x-wildchild.livejournal.com]

Paul E. has sent Kyle up to a bigger club in New York City, to get a taste of what a real no holds barred, MMA fight is like. He, uh, hasn't exactly told Kyle about his opponents though.

In his first fight, Kyle manages a victory. Barely. And the crowd - and announcers - are impressed.



This wasn't a four-corner ring with mats and slightly tattered ropes. This wasn't the little half-empty strip mall with weeds growing between cracks in the parking lot. And this wasn't a place that barely held two dozen guys, much less the crowd watching.

It was an octagon. With real honest-to-Gracie plexiglas and a crowd and Kyle had no goddamn idea what the hell he was doing here, except that Paul had needed a favor or something. And that Vinnie guy seemed pretty decent, sort of. He smelled off, like he wore too much aftershave or something.

And so now he was taping his hands and feet, and picking the stray loose plastic off the new modded up mouthguard he'd finally gotten. And there were people watching. A lot of them. Well, a lot being like, fifty, but it was more than a couple of overweight guys talking smack like they knew what they were talking about.

And they hadn't tell him jack about the guy he was gonna fight. Just that he should keep on his toes and it'd be a good fight.

Outside the caged octagon, the announcers set up their microphones. This fight was being broadcast over the internet live, as well as recorded for later viewings, and real-time commentary and analysis always made for good resale. "All right, fight fans, this is our opening bout of the evening. In the black, you know him from our last show in Manila, 'Lightning' Mike Faber, currently five and one, three knockout victories in the octagon. Across from him is a new addition from Paul E's camp, in his first professional fight, they're calling him the Wild Child. Folks, he may not look old enough to drive, but from what we hear this kid's a real animal on the mat. The referee is entering the octagon, let's go to the action!"

Michael Patrick Faber was buzzed. Which was hardly surprising. He was -always- buzzed. Sometimes literally, when his power ran a little too hot. His eyes darted around the arena as he made his way to the octagon. When he got there, one of his corner men open a vacuum-sealed thermos and handed it to him, and he downed it quickly. Most fighters kept water, or Gatorade, or similar sport drinks with their gear. Michael kept thermoses of imported Colombian coffee. It helped settle him down, ironically enough. Riffling a hand through his short cut, obviously dyed bright red hair, he tapped a foot impatiently, waiting for the preliminaries to finish so he could get to fighting already.

~This is -weird-~ Kyle thought to himself. And he felt utterly out of place, in slightly ragged jean shorts and a plain white t-shirt. The other guy was in crisp black pants, and had equipment and was prepared. Kyle was, in a word - not.

But, he'd said he'd do this, and the next fight too, and so he walked down between the bleachers towards the octagon and the sliding plexiglas door he'd been told was the entrance. "Wait there, where Stevie and Mick are, and they'll tell you when to go in. You'll probably know though." He'd been told. And introduced to Stevie and Mick, who were gonna be his corner guys. Make sure he had everything he needed and all that, he'd been told.

Even as the referee was signaling to begin, Michael was flowing forward, fists beginning to crackle. He threw a haymaker punch that was telegraphed from somewhere behind his head, and as expected, the feral kid blocked easily. Michael grinned as the kid's arm came up. Against anyone who'd seen him and his power in action, it would have gone totally differently, but the kid was fresh meat, and he had no clue what Michael could do. And so the sharp crack and smell of ozone that accompanied an electrical discharge came as a surprise to almost nobody except Kyle.

His arm hurt. Way, way more than it should have. Kyle's eyes teared up, and he blinked, trying to clear his vision. Why did that hurt so much? He pulled back, instincts telling him to get away from the source of the pain, and stumbled backwards a few steps before he recognized the smell of burnt hair.

~Fucker set me on -fire-?~ He thought angrily. "The fuck gives?" He snarled, baring his teeth, but not letting his opponent actually respond before he lunged forward, intent on grabbing him.

The kid hadn't noticed that Michael's hands and feet were bare and unwrapped. But from what he'd heard, the kid wasn't much of a thinker. That was fine by Michael. He was more of a doer, too. And what needed doing at that moment was a foot, crackling with electrical energy, being put straight into the kid's gut.

The extra pain was getting annoying. And how had he moved so -fast-? Kyle doubled over from the impact, and threw his shoulder forward, rolling off the kick. He threw out a leg at the last minute, trying to connect with his opponent's ankle and sweep him to the ground. No way he was gonna let an annoying thing like pain make him lose. The guy thought he was making Kyle hurt? He didn't know from pain. Pain was getting your limbs rearranged and mangled, not a little tingling and burning in your arm.

"And Faber's getting in some unanswered shots on the rookie!" The color commentator's voice cracked with excitement as Kyle attempted a tripping maneuver. "If this kid doesn't start showing some fire, we may see the fastest knockout in years!"

Expecting a counterattack, Michael had his kicking foot back down in time to hop over the attempted sweep. As Kyle came back to his feet from the move, Michael launched a knee strike straight out of Muay Thai kickboxing at Kyle's head.

Knees were nice big targets to grab onto. Kyle had learned that two weeks before, after getting kneed in the nose about six times in a row. But it was easier to let Michael connect first, taking the knee to his chin and ignoring the pain before grabbing onto it and throwing his weight backwards, hoping to flip his opponent. And even if he didn't, well, the claws unsheathing and biting through the material of his pants and into his skin would get his attention.

The grab took him by surprise, though the slight pain of the claws was easily shaken off. He'd had worse. But Michael was used to having a serious edge in reflex speed. He'd heard the kid was quick, but it seems like he'd done a bit of underestimating of his own. Obviously a healer on top of being a feral, from the way his singed skin was already starting to heal. Which meant Michael needed to stop playing around and give the kid some more juice. Rolling through the flip, he laid hands on the bare skin of Kyle's lower arms, sending the rough equivalent of a taser blast into the younger mutant before attempting to use the built-up momentum to throw Kyle in return.

Kyle was expecting the shock this time, but not near as much as he got. This wasn't like the burning tingle from before. This was sharp and made the bones in his arms ache, and his fingertips go numb. Before he could react, he was pulled over, and only had time to half-stumble into a roll, turning back in time to catch another of the kicks to his gut.

"Faber's just punishing the rookie!" The commentator's voice was laced with disbelief. Not so much for the blows the kid was taking, but for the fact that he was getting up. Behind them, the crowd was starting to show a definite interest, chants swaying from support of the veteran to definite cheers for the young "Wild Child".

With a healer, the trick was to try and overload their abilities, because they could take a lot more punishment than even your better than average fighter, who could generally take a decent amount. And so Michael continued to take the offensive, for as long as the kid wanted to let him have it. Kicks and punches, accompanied by the loud crackles of electricity, rained down on Kyle like thunderbolts thrown from the angry hand of Zeus.

He was used to being faster than his opponents. This was new, and annoying and not a bit cool. And it -hurt-. Kyle doubled over, trying to cover his face and catch any kind of respite, even for a moment. And then a punch caught him in the head, nicking the sensitive tip of his ear, and for a moment, everything went bright white.

The growl that came up out of his chest surprised -him-. It shouldn't have, but his vision wasn't quite cleared yet, and he didn't quite know where he was for a moment.

He'd heard about what had happened in the kid's test fight, where it was like a switch was thrown, and the stumbling kid with okay instincts and reflexes was replaced by an animal. He'd seen footage of that guy who'd done some cage fights up in Canada...the Wolverine. But seeing a thing and experiencing it were two different things. So even though Michael was prepared for the kid to eventually try and take the offensive, he wasn't prepared for him to come boiling out of the corner like a force of nature.

"Holy crap, look at him make a comeback!" The commentators could barely believe what they were seeing. "This kid's throwing punches like a machine gun, he's inside Faber's guard - Faber goes for a snap kick but the kid's just too fast, he's really turning it on now! Roundhouse is ducked - thrust kick to the sternum, holy shit, have you ever seen such intensity? Folks, I think we have a new star on our hands here!"

It was like his arms and legs were acting about three moves ahead of what Kyle was thinking about. Just when he recognized that he'd kicked Michael soundly in the chest and sent him reeling back, he was already elbowing him in the face, all the time snarling and baring his fangs.

The impact of the elbow practically caused Michael to bite through his mouthguard, the only piece of protective gear that he tended to bother with. Wrapped hands or feet got in the way of efficient use of his power. The tide had obviously turned in the fight, and Michael struggled to regain the upper hand, striking out sharply with his fists.

The blows to Kyle's arms and chest weren't helping him think clearly at all, and they still -hurt-. This needed to end, and it needed to end now. Anger or not, he could tell he was breathing heavily, practically panting, and his shirt and jeans clung to him with every movement, soaked through with sweat.

Michael was feeling the strain as well. The blows Kyle had landed were powerful, and the amount of charge he was putting out was more than he was used to. Still, the kid had learned, and wasn't giving him much opportunity to hit him enough to throw more charge at him.

This guy didn't seem like he was going to -quit-. He was the damned Energizer Bunny or something and the shocks kept getting worse. Kyle fought back the urge to find the meaty part of Michael's arm and sink his teeth in. Biting was -most- definitely against the rules. He'd had that drilled into his head. Apparently they were convinced that anyone with fangs would just automatically start chewing on people.

At one of Michael's kicks, Kyle dove under his leg and behind him, grabbing his supporting leg and hooking it with an elbow as he slid. Enough was damned well enough. He hit the ground with a thump - but not as much of one as Michael made, dropping to his knees to keep from going backwards onto his ass.

Which was exactly what Kyle had wanted. Watching Smackdown and Raw obsessively was good for -something- finally besides being amused at Jay going into swooning fits whenever the Rock came on the screen. It probably hadn't hurt either, the couple of times he'd tried this on Forge before Forge started threatening to use the screechy ear-drum destroying whatever-it-was on him.

With one arm wrapped around Michael's throat, and the other up under his arm, it made a vise, against his neck and windpipe. Not cutting off his air - at least, Kyle didn't think it was. He could still hear him breathing, if raggedly. But it was supposed to put pressure on some veins in the neck, and if it worked - well, he'd tap, or he'd pass out. Either way, Kyle didn't much care anymore.

The kid wanted to -grapple-? Michael bared his teeth in something of a feral grin of his own. Grappling meant a whole lot of skin-to-skin contact. And that meant the opening to pump the kid with just as much voltage as he could take. Electricity crawled up and down their linked bodies, and even arcing to one of the posts of the octagon, which had been carefully grounded against just such an eventuality.

He hadn't counted on the guy upping the juice -again-. This was... Kyle thought maybe it might be too much, but he damn well wasn't letting go. Even if his teeth were rattling against the mouthguard, and he was pretty sure the stink of burning hair was coming from his arms -and- legs.

The kid knew his submission holds, that was for sure. And so it was a race, to see if Michael could overload the kid with electricity before going unconscious or tapping out. Michael gritted his teeth and upped the amperage even more. He was pouring enough into the kid to stop a small bear, and the kid hung on grimly, like a dog who'd set his teeth. Michael's vision began to gray at the corners, and he attempted to up the power even more. But as his vision narrowed even more, Michael realized the kid's healing factor was just absorbing too much for the electricity to incapacitate him. And abruptly, cutting his power off entirely, Michael stretched a hand and tapped the mat, signalling his submission.

And just in time. The ref rushed over, almost pulling Kyle off Michael, and calling an end to the fight. Kyle sat on the mat for what felt like a long time, dazed and sore and entirely too aware of how much hair and skin had been singed and was now raw and stinging.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have to tell you, in all my years of announcing combat sports, I assure you that I have never seen quite a strong showing in a debut bout. If you missed seeing this live, folks, there is nothing I can say but to buy the DVD," the announcer struggled through amazement to find the words. "The Wild Child wins by submission over Lightning Mike Faber, folks, this was a hundred-to-one fight - where did Paul E find this kid...?"



Kyle's second fight doesn't go as well. Of course, it doesn't help matters that his second opponent is much older, much better trained, and has gone toe-to-toe with Sabertooth a few (dozen) times.



Kyle leaned his forehead against the wall of the locker room. Two fights. TWO. He'd expected one, and he was practically exhausted and everything -hurt-. Everything. His hair hurt. His lungs hurt. The insides of his eyelids hurt.

He made a mental note to never, ever, ever in a million-billion years piss off Ms. Munroe.

They were gonna announce his name any second now - again - and he wasn't half prepared. But he'd given his word, and a guy just didn't back down on something like that. So he stripped off his soaked shirt, wincing at the slightly raw skin on his arms and shoulders. At least he had a clean shirt.

The announcers wasted no time in calling him back to the octagon, and he loped out of the locker room and down the hallway, out the doors and to the base of the octagon. He'd thought they'd announced his opponent, but he couldn't see anyone standing in the ring. ~The hell?~ He thought, entering and scratching his head in confusion.

Toad perched on the octagon railing, hands held above his head, bathing in the cheers of the--well, it wasn't really a crowd, not like at his usual place, but still, he had to admit, he loved this. Toad owed Magneto way too much to skip out on the guy, crazy though he almost always was, but there wasn't much doubt about who was the low man on that totem pole. Here, though? Here he was a star. The kind of guys who wouldn't've considered Morty Toynbee worth the water to spit on walked wide of Toad, because he could kick their asses, and they knew it--and they loved him for it.

"Hurry up, hotshot," he called to the hunched figure walking up to the ring. "Everybody keeps telling me you're worth my time, but all I see is dogshit waiting to splatter. You here to fight, or what?"

Kyle looked up, and gaped. "Aw, -hell- no." He muttered. Toad. With the jumping and the tongue and the kicking hard and the -tongue- and the spitting and had he mentioned the million foot long tongue? Because it was gross. "What, metalbutt let you off your leash for the night?" He yelled back, stepping into the octagon and sliding the door closed.

Oh, this was Christmas. This was Christmas and his birthday and his little buddy the miniature Vic Creed to kick around again. "Kiddo," he said, a nice big grin spreading across his face, "I'm almost a little tempted to hand back the nice big check they cut me to show up here and trash the local heroes. Because you? You I'll stomp for free." He took a graceful double flip off the railing into the middle of the ring. "Not a lot tempted, though. Let's see if you got anything new since the last time I beat your ass."

"Other than a total world of hate for your psycho boss?" Kyle snapped. Magneto was nuts and anyone who worked for him willingly was just as nuts. Maybe more. He rocked on the balls of his feet, watching warily. No way he was making the first move, not against -this- guy.

"So no skills, then? Damn, and here I thought I might break a sweat." Toad bounced forward and back, forward and back, tapping Kyle on the shoulder, the nose, rocking his head back with a quick smack on the forehead. Taunting blows. "So what, these people pay money to come watch you fetch a stick, or something?"

"Like I'm gonna tell you?" The sting of the blows was almost worse than an actual solid hit. This was insulting. Kyle knew when he was being played with. And really, the only thing he could do was hit back. Only not the little taps. He lunged forward, intent on punching for all he was worth, throwing everything into it.

Toad sniggered as he weaved out of the way of Kyle's lunge. "If that's what they came to see, they deserve refunds. I take tougher shits in the morning." He did a quick backflip just for fun, and at the top of his arc lashed his tongue out to wrap Kyle's ankle and yank.

As expected, Kyle went flying heels over head, his feet pulled out from under him. But instead of landing flat on his back, as he suspect Toad thought he might, he twisted in mid-fall, landing hands down, and digging his claws into the mat. "You're still fucking gross, man." He snarled, and arched his back and pulled his legs in hard towards his chest.

Toad stumbled forward a step from the unexpected jerk; his tongue uncoiled and reeled back into his mouth. "Aw, I'm hurt. Babytooth thinks I'm gross." He leaped into the air with an ostentatious flip, both feet hammering down toward Kyle's upraised back.

"Don't CALL me that..." Kyle growled, voice not at all steady under the barrage. The last fight had taken a lot out of him. He'd thought he'd recovered, but after being beaten soundly a second time in as many minutes, he realized that no, he absolutely had not. The world spun, and Kyle staggered back, stumbling over his own feet.

"I'll call you whatever I want," Toad retorted, grinning gleefully as he hammered kick after kick into Kyle's body. "You're nothing, kid. Without your big bad X-Men to save your ass, you're just a punching bag." The tongue came out again, lifting Kyle into the air by his ankle, and Toad spun underneath its arc, one foot leading the way toward Kyle's jaw.

It wasn't the kick to his jaw that knocked Kyle completely out, though it certainly helped. It was landing on the same place after being kicked in it. The kick had sent a sharp crack through his face, Kyle had -heard- his jaw break as much as he felt it, and then everything went very quickly black and red, and he met the floor with a echoing thump, not even having a chance to break his fall before he lost any sense of ... anything.