Wrath of God (86 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryRating: 2 on 1 review (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Magicaddict (View user info) at 2006-10-08 16:14:52 EDT
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
"Crucify! Crucify!"
The shout was taken up by some of the hardcore supporters, the ones who came for more than the prestige matches; they knew what was coming next. A few of the more recent arrivals half-heartedly joined in, wondering what they were calling for. In the ring, one battered, blood stained figure picked up the other and measured him with a straight right hand, more blood flying up where sweat had gone before.
"Crucify! Crucify!"
The still vertical man stood over the fallen one, surveying his work and listening to the increasingly frantic crowd as more fairweathers picked up the chant, and under the blood, a wry smile appeared on his face. He raised his eyes to the few people who actually knew who he was, the ones who came to support him, and nodded almost imperceptibly. They howled their appreciation.
He shuffled over to his toolkit, and rooted round for what he needed. There was a momentary lull in the crescendo, as those who weren't in the know wondered what was coming out of the bag. Finding what he was looking for, he stood again and held the implements aloft. The volume climbed another couple of notches.
Two long-throw climbing pitons and a lump hammer.
Abruptly, everyone else became acutely aware of what they had been shouting earlier - it was no joke; the loser in this bout really was about to get crucified.
The man with the tools grabbed his prone and almost lifeless counterpart by the ankle, and dragged him to the cage wall that surrounded the ring. Placing one piton in his teeth, he hefted his victim up against the cage, bracing him in place with his knee, and stretched out his right arm, lining up his wrist with the piton. After taking a moment to enjoy the almost continuous roar that was now permeating the arena, he slammed it into place with the hammer. The piton impaled the wrist, sprang open and locked in place. His prey screamed incoherently. Blood sprayed across the ring. The sound of approval was deafening.
He momentarily released the now profusely bleeding and obviously losing combatant to pick up the other piton. Hefting his weight again, he lined up his left wrist and repeated the feat. Another huge spurt of blood. Another scream of pleasure from the audience.
He briefly returned to his toolkit to retrieve the instrument of coup de grace. Upon producing a two foot long metal stake, the crowd went beserk.
Knowing he didn't have long, he returned to the fray to put an end to it. As he lined up the stake over his cruciform opponent's heart, the oppressive scream of bloodlust assaulting his ears, he noticed the pale glow behind his enemy's eyes, signalling that his ALS module was coming online and taking a firm grip on its charge's collar, ready to hold him at the threshold of death's door without quite letting him through.
"See you next week, Jake," he said, with more sarcasm than was deserved. It'd been a hard fight.
He drove the stake home with prejudice. Blood erupted from the losing contestant's chest and sprayed over him and the rest of the ring. He let it, as he enjoyed the delirious reflected pleasure of his viewers. For that one, solitary moment, they were all his fans.
"Ladies and gentlemen, here is your winner......Jonathan SPARKES!"
One more roar, and it was over. The medtechs swarmed over the now only artificially vital loser, getting him down and carting him off on a trolley, eyes glowing. The crowd quietened down quickly, talking about what they saw and how they'd never seen this guy before and how he should be doing more matches, and Jon had finished work for another evening. He made his way towards the exit, where his promoter was waiting for him just inside the tunnel.
"Nice one, Sparky. Can always count on you to build them up." Tais Hutchins was tall and workmanlike, with a brusque manner, but always had the kindness to actually look concerned for his fighters' wellbeing, for all he didn't mean it. Jon waved away his offer of a supporting arm.
"No charge. Will Jake be okay? He looked like shit."
"You do anything out of the ordinary?"
"You weren't watching?"
"Didn't need to."
"Same drill as usual."
"Couple of days under ALS and some reconstructive surgery and he'll be fine, then."
"Just checking."
"Whatever."
The sound of the ring announcer building up the first of the prestige fights filtered down the tunnel as a younger, fitter looking but less well-developed man in flashy trunks surrounded by a numerous, vacuously raucous entourage jogged past Jon and Tais, heading for the ring without giving them a second glance.
"Who was that?" Jon asked.
"Deathstalker. Fourteen and nought, on the rise," replied Tais. "Challenging Darkman tonight."
"Blotch on a promising career."
"Tell me about it."
A lone, overly tall man in an immaculate black greatcoat and wide brimmed hat strode towards the pair of them, a determined look on his face. As he passed them, he turned slightly without slowing down and nodded in acknowledgement.
"Jon."
"Alex."
With that brief show of professional courtesy, Darkman was gone, in all likelihood about to kill someone who thought he knew how to deathfight. Jon and Tais headed back to the locker room.
_______________
"Get yourself cleaned up properly," said Tais, as Jon was tended to by a medtech. "There are people here to see you."
"To see me? Who?" Jon was intrigued.
"Two suits and a holy man."
"Folk trio?"
"Expensive suits."
"Seriously?"
"I shit you not."
What have I done now, he thought, looking down at his well over half-broken body. Jake Wilson really had done a number on him before going down.
"Think they're here to complain about the finisher?" He asked.
"You've been doing that to your opponents for nine years, Jon," replied Tais, turning round from the wardrobe and holding an almost expensive looking suit in Jon's size. "I think God's been aware of your MO for a while. He'd have put a stop to it by now if he gave a fuck."
"I suppose so."
Jon hated getting dressed up. He'd never been one for suits, they reminded him too much of his court appearances. Still, impressions had to be maintained when dealing with people who may well be potential sponsors. He dutifully had his hands and face dermagrafted by the tech to get rid of the cuts, showered, and put on the suit, shifting uncomfortably in it as he combed his hair.
"They sponsors?"
"That's the thing with priests. They aren't typically the sort, on balance."
"But this one..."
"...didn't look it either. You ready yet?"
"Yeah, yeah." Let's get this over with, he thought. "After you, princess."
Muffled roars were heard round the arena as they headed up in the lift towards the corporate boxes. It had been about half an hour - Darkman was probably into the chest incision stage by now. Jon wondered what he'd write on the spangly-trunked kid's torso before removing his still beating heart. The lift reached it destination and slid silently open, thanking them for travelling.
The walked out into the corridor behind the executive boxes. This really was the plush area, Jon thought, admiring the thick carpet and tasteful wallpaper. Whoever these people he was meeting were, they had the kind of money that had franchises bending over backwards to secure their patronage. Tais knocked on the door of box twelve, the volume from the arena jumping sharply as it opened. A well kept older man in a dapper butler's outfit took note of who they were, and indicated to Jon to make his way in.
"Mr. Sparkes, thank you for coming. My patrons await you. Mr. Hutchins, I'm afraid I'm not allowed..."
Tais held his hand up. "I get the picture, ruggles. Jon, I'll be back in the locker room. You," he pointed at the butler, "Don't let him get too drunk. He can't handle it."
He turned and left without another word. The butler led Jon into the suite.
It had everything you would expect from a corporate box - bar, comfy chairs, large window giving unrestricted view of the ring - but the three occupants weren't taking advantage of any of them. They were standing in the middle of the room, seemingly awaiting his arrival. The priest was in the middle, conspicuously wearing a dog collar, and flanked by two men in what looked like very expensive suits indeed. Jon noticed a highlight reel in the arena showing Darkman holding spangle-boy's heart aloft for the crowd to see. He didn't look all that cut up. The butler excused himself and departed.
"Mr. Sparkes, good evening. Thank you for joining us so soon after your match."
It was one of the suits who spoke, in a polite, reserved tone that matched his slight bodyframe and quiet demeanour. Jon was getting nervous - he didn't deal with the rich or the powerful very often, and he hadn't a clue what to say. As if realising this, the reserved man continued.
"Please, come and sit. Would you like a drink?"
"Er, thanks. Scotch, please, straight." He hoped he sounded grateful.
The other suited man, this one thicker set and taller, made his way over to the bar and prepared the large whisky. He joined them in armchairs turned away from the action just as the rest of them sat down, the priest remaining silent.
"Thanks," said Jon, accepting the drink. "What can I do for you gentlemen?"
The larger man spoke up. "You did well this evening."
So you were watching, Jon thought. "Thank you. The opponent pushed me, but I've beaten him before," he added in measured tones.
"Three times."
So they'd been checking up as well, he realised with a slight sense of dread. People who did their homework tended to either know what they were talking about or be trying to impress. He hoped it was the latter. The larger man continued.
"In fact, for the last eight years, beating people is all you have done when you've stepped into a ring. You've racked up twenty four victories in a row since your last defeat, at the hands of Richie "The Rage" Bishop. You've been on quite a roll."
"I suppose I have, and your memory for trivia is very good."
"Thank you. I do try to keep in touch." The speaker sat back. "My name is Jensen, and my colleagues are Mr. Falconer and Father Marx. I believe we may have a proposal that would interest you."
Jon finished his drink. He dearly wanted another one.
"Oh?"
"How much do you know about the Enzor Trials, Mr. Sparkes?"
Jon was surprised. After the knowledge this man had displayed, he couldn't expect an experienced combatant not to know what they were; indeed, every deathfighter in the system knew about them. It had to be for the other two. He answered very carefully.
"I know they are an evolution of the ancient practice of trial by combat. Sixty-four convicted criminals from all over the sector who are willing and deemed able take part in a knockout contest. The fights are not unlike what I and my...colleagues...do on a regular basis. The winner is set free. As the prisoners do not have access to ALS modules, the losers die permanently as part of the contest."
The quiet suit looked like he didn't understand. The priest, Marx, looked impassive as he drew something from his pocket. When he spoke, it had an authoritarian edge.
"And how much do you know about this man, Mr. Sparkes?"
He threw a picture onto the table. It wasn't particularly good, but it didn't need to be. The face of every man who had killed him in the ring was etched on Jon's mind enough that he could have been shown the subject's nose and known who it was. He answered carefully again.
"That man is Piotr Daslanovitch. He's an ex-deathfighter, known in his time as the Tzar. He was the first man to defeat me, when he was in his prime and I was just starting out and being used as fodder. I know he got in trouble after he retired, but I don't know what kind."
He really wanted another drink. Marx replied before he had the chance to ask for another one.
"He murdered a man. A priest. In return, he was sentenced to life imprisonment in the mines on Molken. He is currently travelling to Enzor to take part in the trials. He may be set free."
Jon could see where this was going. "And you don't want that to happen."
"An eye for an eye may be outdated, Mr. Sparkes, considering what you do," Marx had a piercing gaze when he wanted to use it, "But this man killed one of our own."
And that made it all alright. The church frowned on deathfighting as a rule, but it was amazing what having one of your own family killed can drive someone to. Now the quiet suit, Falconer, spoke up.
"We want you to travel to Enzor, in the guise of a convicted criminal, enter the contest and kill Daslanovitch."
Jon laughed, and then paused, taking in each of their faces, looking for the lie. There was none. They were actually serious.
"Er, hang on a minute," he replied. "There are two pretty fundamental differences between what I do and what they do. Firstly, they're convicts. I'm not, at least not any more, and secondly, contestants cannot be ressur...brought back if they die."
He bit off what he was going to say at a look from Marx. Resurrection was one of the sticking points between the church, who considered it blasphemous, and the franchises, who considered it lucrative. There was still an off-chance that this was a wind up, in which case he still needed to watch his language. Jensen took up the conversation in his polite tones.
"We are aware that the contestants are not free men, and nor do they have access to artificial life support modules, impositions that are not, physically at least, made on you. However, look at it another way."
This better be really good or I'm going home, Jon thought.
"Your record is currently forty-six and five, undefeated in eight years and twenty-four fights. You are probably the best deathfighter on the planet, with the possible exceptions of Alex Ransome and Ryan Ladd, and it would be a close call even then. The three of you are peerless, yet if you were to show a regular deathfight fan pictures of the three of you, they would only be able to recognise Darkman and Baron Scaffold. Jonathan Sparkes is entirely unknown. You were a convict when you started this, and became a free man upon dedicating your life to it when you had your module fitted. They were free men who entered the game of their own choice. They are no different to you, yet they take part in televised matches and win world titles, and you warm up the crowd. Your heritage will mean you will spend your life doing this for the likes of them, and worse, the likes of whom Mr. Ransome defeated in five minutes flat this evening."
Jon was silent. Jensen was right; ex-cons, who made up the majority of those in the deathfight game, would never get broadcast, except where they were being used for character enhancement work, which involved them being thrown in against up and coming stars while hideously unprepared. The slaughter was normally quick, but it certainly wasn't painless. It was no secret that he hated the arrogant kids that were somehow viewed as better than him when he could tear them new assholes two at a time, all because he came from the wrong background.
He really, really wanted another drink.
"How would you like to be able to take the place you deserve?"
The question came out of the blue from Falconer. Jon was snapped out of his reverie.
"I'm sorry?"
"That's what we're offering, Mr. Sparkes," spoke up Marx. "I have no love for what you do, but if God can forgive all but murder, then so can I."
Falconer continued. "Up for grabs is an XDF World Title shot against The Punisher. Mr. Jensen could think of no better way of getting you into the upper echelons safely."
"This is all serious, and all true, Mr. Sparkes." This time it was Jensen. "You've heard from the wronged party, and the financier, now hear from the fan. You deserve so much better than this, and we can give it to you, but we need you to do this for us first. Have your ALS module turned off, go to Enzor, pose - and I do mean pose - as a criminal, kill a man who murdered a priest in cold blood, be presented with a pardon every bit as spurious as the conviction, come home, and roll over the worst World Champion in living memory. Seven steps to everything someone of your skill and dedication would aspire to, if they had the slightest chance of achieving it. Now you do."
Falconer placed two pieces of paper on the desk on front of him. One was a notice of conviction. The other was a notice of pardon. Jensen continued.
"You can keep whichever of these you want, if it would make you feel better. We can't ask Mr. Ransome or Mr. Ladd, as they're prestige fighters and would be missed for the twelve months you'd be gone. The standard of competition there, with the exception of Daslanovitch, is lower than you would face during a standard evening's work. The gamble is that you really can't afford to lose. The payoff is access to world titles, fame, and retirement as a rich, respectable citizen. Take it or leave it."
Jon stood up and walked over to the window, looking out over the arena. Twizt was doing over some poor ex-con. He thought he recognised him.
Precisely what were they asking? By now, Daslanovitch would be a far cry from his days as The Tzar. He would be slower, less capable, and Jon stilled owed him a beating. In order to repay him, he would have to enter a competition where his life, for once, really was on the line. This was not a reasonable exchange.
What they were offering, however, was quite a different story.
He'd spent twelve years doing this, never being broadcast, while others who possessed neither the skill nor the willingness he had reaped the rewards and notoriety that really were his by right of aptitude. This wasn't professional wrestling any more. There was no storyline, no predetermined outcomes; this was a business where the champions got there on merit and canny booking by their promoters. He should be headlining, and winning, and should have been doing it for years, regardless of where he came from. Everything he had ever wanted since he signed up to the business had just been offered to him on a plate.
But was this plate worth travelling to Enzor and staking his life to accept?
"This is a one time only offer, Mr. Sparkes." It was Jensen again. "If you don't go, you'll never get out of this. You'll be as much of a prisoner as you've always been. If you go, and Daslanovtich dies before you meet him, you'll be pulled out, taken back here and returned to your life as it was. You will have lost nothing. When you kill him - for I think we both know you'll end up facing each other at some point, the best will out, and all that - we'll pull you out and bring you back here to the softest entry into the prestige circuit that I could possibly suggest to Mr. Falconer. Please, make a decision quickly. If you refuse, we have to move quickly to secure another, more clandestine, means of Daslanovitch's death."
A decision quickly. Go with your intuition Jon, he thought, it usually stands you in good stead.
He walked over to the bar and poured four measures of the whisky, picking the glasses up in one hand and taking the decanter in the other. He walked over to the table, where the three men who had offered him the ultimate gamble were sitting, anticipating, and sat down, putting the decanter in the centre of the table and giving them each a glass.
"Okay gentlemen, let's talk."
Tais was going to be pissed.
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Submitted by TheUniter (user info) at 2007-06-05 12:34:15 EDT (#)
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