Chapter Text
The door to the Greenroom opened, and S'milo walked in with confidence. Behind him scurried a small, hooded mammet, keeping pace with him, despite the tiny legs beneath the cloak.
"Hey!" Yaana grinned, jogging over to him, "You're just in time! You've got one more fight before you need to be in the wings, for your championship fight!" She glanced down at the tiny mammet, "What's this little guy?"
S'milo followed her gaze, "That's Vincienso. He was getting bored, cooped up where he was, so I decided to bring him along."
Yaana watched it scurry over to a chair, hop up on it, and settle down. No glowing eyes were peeking out from beneath the hood as it glanced around. It seemed harmless enough, so she shrugged.
S'milo took off his adventuring pack, moving to where he had placed it yesterday, "So, as my second, what do you have about my opponent?"
A scoff was Yaana's first response, "Wait until you get a load of this character," she said, and grabbed the remote. She waited for S'milo to come back into view of the monitor, before switching it on.
On the screen, the brutish man from yesterday was winding up his shoulder in his promotional video. The image froze on a deliberately crazy-eyed shot, with his tongue hanging out.
"That there, I regret to say, is the reigning light-heavyweight champion, the Brute Bomber," Yaana explained, motioning to the silhouette behind the Bomber, "He uses the might of the bomb king to ignite all that he touches. But that'll be the least of your worries."
S'milo met her gaze as she turned to him, arms crossed, and brows furrowed, "He's a dirty fighter who'll do anything and everything to win, the rules be damned. Countless of his opponents have had to be carried to the infirmary."
S'milo glanced at Yaana, thankful she wasn't in such a state after he fought her. "Alright, good to know," he remarked, nodding, and rolling his shoulders to warm himself up.
"But you'll be fine, I'm sure of it!" Yaana grinned, almost bouncing, "If you bested me and Honey, you can best the Brute Bomber too!"
Her enthusiasm was infectious, with her throwing him a thumbs-up. He couldn't help smiling back.
The two of them noticed the light above the door turning yellow, "Alright, you're on deck!" Yaana nodded "Go and blast that loathsome lout out of his own ring, and come back here the new champion!"
He nodded, patted her on the shoulder, and went for the door, and the elevator beyond.
Audience members were continuing to file into, and up the tiered catwalks surrounding the massive cage. Within, beyond the extra protective shield, was an enormous platform, itself surrounded by four turnbuckles, and ropes. Although, it was clear that the ropes were designed for soulshifted combatants; even the tallest Roegadyn could walk under without it brushing his hair. S'milo certainly hadn't as he had entered the arena. Camera drones wheeled around the two combatants as they squared up.
On one side, the man with mismatched eyes warmed up his shoulder, then roared as his regulator blazed red. Dark aether surrounded him, and he inflated like a Bomb getting ready to burst.
"He explodes into the ring once more…" came Metem's announcement, "The man you love to hate with a fiery passion—the Brute Bomber!"
A mix of jeers and cheers erupted from the crowd, as he emerged from the aether, flipped, and flexed. The Bomb King's fiery red face grinned at S'milo from his chest. Part of S'milo's mind idly wondered if he could see out of both pairs of eyes he now had, and how disorienting that might be. Beyond that, not much more analysis needed be done; everything he could spot on the giant figure matched what Yaana had given him.
"And the challenger! The dauntless defender! The unenhanced upstart! S'milo Tia! Will he be able to dethrone the Bomb King?"
S'milo thought for a moment. His previous matches had given him an interesting mix of people from his history. This time, he actually focused; his opponent wasn't afraid of fighting dirty, so he focused on similar memories as the tingle of aether passed over him: fighters who wouldn't be afraid to fight dirty.
The Arcadion's systems seemed to deliver. The albino Shetona with the sage's armaments made an appearance once again. An older, white-haired Hyune woman with an eyepatch stepped forward, and drew a scythe. Another two Hyune women drew firearms; one had a neckerchief, and slightly pointed ears—maybe she was half-Eldite?—the other reached up to undo the hair tie the system saw fit to give her.
There were two who looked… odd. One lady with a pair of daggers was completely covered by purple wraps and a hood. She had a white Hhetsarro tail, but her hood's ear flaps looked to be more on the side, and swept back.
The other one had a black Hhetsarro tail, but was far taller than any Miqo'te S'milo had ever seen, towering over him at nearly seven fulms. He bore an enormous greatsword, and black, intimidating armor, complete with forward-sweeping horns on the sides of his helm. He looked down at S'milo, and grunted, nodding.
S'milo nodded back, and had to stop himself from chuckling. It appeared that the Arcadion's systems did not know how to handle Au Ra. Their odd appearance meant he had almost missed the young Eldite girl in the imposing knight's shadow, holding a conjurer's wand.
The Brute Bomber took a stance, and with a flick of his hand, ignited the ring around them both. A wave of heat crashed into the ring, and across the air gap towards the audience beyond the cage. The protective barrier shimmered against the heat, and S'milo's tail fluttered forward.
The Brute Bomber smirked, "I'll blow you to smithereens!"
S'milo smirked back, and drew his weapon.
It made sense to S'milo that this guy was the Light-Heavyweight champion. Almost everything he did came with a blast radius.
Another series of explosions rang out across the arena, sending some of the simulacra flying. They thankfully managed to stay out of the fire, but some of them were struggling to get up—apart from the ninja, who spun into a standing position, and disappeared in a puff of smoke, an instant before the Bomber's fire breath scorched the deck plates where she had been.
Just when they got back on their feet and re-engaged, the Bomber started to make a dash for the ropes, knocking over the scythe-wielder as he went. S'milo reached down, and hauled her to her feet, then glanced over at where the Bomber had run towards.
What he saw was the Brute Bomber's fist coming right for him, in a low lariat.
"Ooh, the challenger will feel that in the morning!"
S'milo came to his senses when he felt an impact on his chin, followed shortly by his chest. He rolled onto his back, kipped up, took a defensive stance, and took stock of the situation. His chin hurt like hell. His hat was missing. Sweat was pouring down his forehead. His gunblade was stuck in the floor a few fulms in front of him.
"He's back on his feet! That was not enough to keep him down for long!" Metem's voice seemed to answer the question of how long he was out.
The Brute Bomber bounced off the opposite ropes, and hurled himself into the center of the arena, causing his simulacra allies to either scatter, or get thrown back once again. The dark knight let go of the conjurer, to bring his blade to bear against him, while the others picked themselves up, and readied their weapons in the short lull.
The silence was broken by the Brute Bomber pulling a can from his belt, and popping it open. "Don't mind me," he grinned, "Throat's a bit parched!" before leaning back, and making a show of pouring it into his mouth.
S'milo's shoulders slumped as he dropped his stance, and made an exasperated noise. He started to pull off his armored coat; he was overheating.
A refbot came down, its angry face flashing red, bubbly fists clenched and shaking angrily, as the Brute Bomber wiped his mouth, and flexed his muscles, sending out another wave of heat, it announced, "Banned compound detected. Combatant disqualified."
Over the boos from the audience, Brute Bomber crushed the now empty can, hurled it over S'milo's head out of the ring, and rounded on the refbot. "Out of the way, tin can!" he roared, reared back his fist, and punched it.
The refbot's core bubble visibly squished inward with the impact, and it went flying backwards, its floating hands trailing behind it like streamers. Its main body bounced off the floor, clipped the top rope, and crashed into the protective barrier in front of the cage, before falling into the gap outside the ring. One of its hands tried to grab the ring as it passed, but it slipped out of sight.
"My word!" exclaimed Metem, "He just assaulted the referee! The scoundrel!"
Over Metem's words, S'milo finished tying the sleeves of his coat around his waist, and put his hat back on. "So that's how you want to play this," he growled, pulling his gunblade out of the floor, and shouldering it. He settled into a bouncing stance, and smirked, a little red gleam in his slitted iris.
"No more distractions!" roared the Brute Bomber, as he rounded on S'milo.
Having caught their wind, the fighters surged towards each other, and reengaged.
Yaana couldn't help but wince as S'milo took that lariat to the chin. She'd seen her fair share of bad hits—hells, Honey and she had landed some decent hits on him—but that looked bad. She let out a sigh of relief; at least he bounced back from it.
And there it was. Brute Bomber was pulling out his "doping tonic." She sighed. The crowd loved the bit; he really was a true heel. Her ears flicked up, as she realized she hadn't told S'milo about the tonic, and its distinct lack of effects—he was just burning more aether, and being more reckless. Playing it up for the crowd.
S'milo tied his jacket to his belt, pulled his gunblade out of the floor, spun it once, started bouncing with it on his shoulder, then fired his gunblade to surge in.
Her ears perked up. There was something different about his movements. With her and Honey, he was calm, and controlled, and not very aggressive. He usually let his teammates handle the aggression.
His swings looked powerful; some with both hands on the blade for extra force. The camera caught a wild gleam in his eye. He leapt into the air, drew energy off of the Bomber, and started a series of airborne spinning strikes. In the middle of it, S'milo took a punch from the Bomber, sending him hurtling yalms away, with a burst of aetheric shields breaking. The moment both feet hit the ground, he kicked off, launching himself back into him, and continuing his combination strikes.
Brute Bomber hurled an explosive into the air, sending it sailing towards the young conjurer. The tall black knight dove in front of her to block, but S'milo kicked backwards off the Bomber, and batted it out of the air, exploding it in the Bomber's face—well, the one on his chest.
Yaana was captivated. She hadn't seen this side of him before. He was incredibly kind, and genuine. Especially with Neyuni. This? It was like he had unsheathed a weapon, or like a lion had extended his claws. He was vicious, almost feral... yet he just showed that he was still protective of his team. Also, without his jacket, she could see those muscles of his moving beneath that sweater and vest.
She watched him on screen, mesmerized, oblivious to the crowd's roaring, something warm stirring in her chest.
A hissing sound behind her made her jump, and she spun around.
The mammet that had come in with S'milo—Vincenso, was it?—was hissing and bouncing on the seat, thrusting a tiny, clawed fist in the air. He stopped, and glanced at her.
She turned back to the screen, blushing slightly, and tried to stop her fur from standing on end.
On the screen, S'milo charged at the Brute Bomber right as he launched himself across the arena. S'milo slid, ducked under the lariat, and blasted his gunblade against the Bomber's ankle. He stumbled, and crashed awkwardly into the ropes. The two gunslingers and the Shetona rained hells upon him, while he tried to get the rope out of his chest's mouth, and scramble to his feet.
The audience roared.