Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction ❯ Suicide Is Stainless ❯ Hammer Time ( Chapter 5 )

5) Hammer Time

Faye emerged from the front row and began to scale the stairway. As she climbed, she noticed that the bookmaker was at the centre of surprisingly little activity. There were a couple of impoverished looking people around him, exchanging their hard earned pittance for a hope of a better life scribbled upon a slip of paper, but not nearly as many as one might expect.

Reaching the top of the stairs, Faye approached the bookmaker and began to examine the sandwich board.

"See anything you like, miss?" the bookmaker asked.

Faye glanced up to see a leering face peering out at her from beneath a green visor. Reapplying her amiability, as she might reapply her lipstick, Faye replied,

"Maybe."

She then looked back down at the board.

"Tell me," she began. "Are you sure these numbers are right?"

"How do you mean?" the bookmaker asked.

"Well, you've got the challenger down at two hundred and fifty to one. Is Steele fighting a little girl or what?"

"You haven't seen Steele fight, have you?" The bookmaker said rhetorically.

"No, I suppose not." Faye mused.

She mulled over the odds a little longer. Eventually she concluded that a bet on Steele would be a waste of time, since the return if he won would be so small.

"Have made up your mind?" Bookmaker enquired.

"Yes. Ten thousand on the challenger." Faye answered.

The bookmaker shrugged, and produced a blank slip from beneath his board.

"Oh well. It's your money, I guess."

He then began to fill out the slip with a pen that he had extracted from behind his ear.

"You aren't trying to tip me off, are you?" Faye said with a playful smirk.

"Listen lady," the bookmaker began, without looking up from the slip. "I'd be no kind of gentleman if I told you I thought this other guy stood a chance in hell against Steele."

"So you're saying I should place my bet on Steele." said Faye.

The bookmaker glanced up at her,

"Maybe, if you need money for gum. But if put in your place, I'd probably just hang on to my money, like most of the rest of the people around here."

"Well, thanks for the advice," Faye replied. "But I think I'll stick with my bet. After all, a chance at a big win is better than no chance at tall."

"Like I said, it's your money." The bookmaker sighed, and handed the betting slip to Faye.

---- ---- ----

Spike looked up at Faye as she returned to her chair. She was wearing a wide smirk of excitement, the same one she wore every time she caught wind a small fortune.

"So, who did you bet on?" he asked, as if he didn't already know.

"The challenger." Faye replied as she retook her seat.

"Why?" Spike asked, as if he didn't already know that as well.

"The odds on Steele were ridiculous. And besides, I have a soft spot for the underdog. You of all people should know that by now."

Spike returned his attention to the ring. The ring announcer was still working his way through a list of announcements, most pertaining to the various sponsorships to which the event was subject, to the backing of a number of impolite calls for him to get on with it.

". . . and finally our thanks to the fine people at Petrov's Firearms Limited, `Reliable weapons for an unpredictable solar system'. And now, without further ado, tonight's main event."

"Here we go." Faye said, grasping her betting slip tightly between both hands.

"Introducing first, the challenger. From the brutal pits of Venus, Standing at a monstrous six feet and nine inches, and weighing in at two hundred and forty seven pounds and three ounces, an expert in the ancient art of Thai boxing and exponent of the lethal `death crescent', Tiger Po!"

"He sure has a lot to say for himself." Faye commented at the end of the announcer's lengthy introduction.

A shadow began to crawl slowly from the doorway across the ring floor. The ring announcer looked over his shoulder, and then began to move slowly away from the centre of the ring as the shadow's owner emerged from the gap in the wall. The fighter, as tall as had been stated, had to stoop as he passed through the doorway. He was an awesome sight. Dressed in blue boxing shorts, and his hands bound with white tape, his powerful musculature twitched and flexed as he strode purposefully across the ring towards its centre.

Something caught Faye's eye. The fighter's right leg below the knee was artificial. A thigh of flesh and bone gave way to a calf of lustrous metal and joints of tort fibres, the mechanical functions of which were audible even above the cheers and jeers of the crowd's mixed reception. It was probable that the noise generated by the limb was by design; a shrewd psychological move played to intimidate opponents.

Upon reaching the heart of the arena the fighter threw his clenched fists aloft and roared in a manner befitting his name. This was met by a sharp increase in the volume of the audience, each of whom voiced their opinion of the fighter based more than a little on the way they had betted, if indeed they had bothered to bet. The fighter then proceeded to fling his prosthetic limb into a series of arcing kicks which, if deployed in combat, would surely have taken his foot clear over the head of most opponents.

"Hey, I like this guy." Faye said, smiling broadly. "Maybe today's not going to be so bad after all. I wonder why he was at two hundred and fifty to one."

"Two hundred and fifty to one, eh?" said Spike. "Sounds a little short, if you ask me."

Faye turned to Spike in puzzlement.

"A little short? Come on Spike, you make it sound as if Steele fights with a rocket launcher."

Spike smirked slightly.

"You haven't seen Steele fight."

Faye briefly adopted a look of concern as she recalled the bookmaker having made a similar comment. Then she shook it off.

"You know what, Spike? I don't care what you say. I'm due some luck and I think that this is going to be my night. I just hope that there's enough of Steele left to hand over for the bounty."

"I just hope you didn't blow more than your share of the bounty on that worthless piece of paper." Spike replied.

Faye huffed angrily and returned her attention to the ring. Her fighter had since moved over to one side, and had begun some last minute warm up manoeuvres. The ring announcer had taken his place at the centre of the arena, and was prepared to make his next introduction.

"And now, the moment you have all been waiting for." he began.

The announcer was then forced to pause as a deafening roar briefly filled the room. The roar died down quickly, and was replaced by a steady chant of `Stainless' from the crowd, many of whom were now stood up out of their seats.

"From the blood bathed pits of the red planet," he continued in an overly dramatic tone. "Banished to the wastes of Earth for being simply far too dangerous. Cold, hard, merciless, remorseless, and hailed by many as being the greatest pit fighter ever to spill the blood of an opponent. Standing at six feet and five inches, and weighing a powerful two hundred and fifty one pounds, the only style of fighting he knows is. . . killing."

"Oh, please." Faye muttered as the announcer continued to spread it on thick.

"He is loved, he is feared, he is the exponent of the infamous `Hammer', he is. . . Stainless Steele!" cried the announcer, drawing out Steele's name over some seconds.

This was greeted by a second, much louder and prolonged roar, which gave way to a thunderous pounding as all of the spectators in the arena began to stamp their feet against the metal walkways of the temporary stands. This caused the whole structure to shake and convulse beneath Spike and Faye who had both remained seated.

A second shadow, broader than the first, spilled out of the doorway into the ring. Slowly it crept across the mottled surface of the sandy ground, with every foot that it claimed being greeted by a further increase in the din from the stands. Then he emerged into the light.

A man, his head bowed and his arms hanging at his side, marched slowly into the ring. With his face hidden, all that could be seen was the crown of gleaming silver hair that stood upright in orderly ranks of short bristles. His body, bound first in a sheath of twitching muscle, was clung to by a white vest that was already drenched in sweat from what had likely been a warm up regime as brutal as any fight most would ever experience. This was tucked into a pair of combat style trousers that draped uniformly over a pair of black, laced boots.

Steele reached the heart of the ring. For several anticipation-laden seconds, he stood motionless, almost appearing to be asleep on his feet. Then he began to raise his arms from his sides. The light from above the ring burst from the tips of Steele's fingers and from his knuckles as it fell upon the exposed metal bone-structure, which glinted like bizarre items of jewellery.

As his open, up-turned palms rose into the air, a sound began to emanate from within him. A low, near inaudible rumbling carried through the cloudy air, like distant thunder that warned of an approaching storm. The sound grew louder and louder, and then, as his arms reached a horizontal position, Steel threw back his head and unleashed a horrifying cry.

The ear-piercing sound evoked similar cries from the audience whose latent, primal blood thirst seemed to be awoken by its uneven strains.

Faye looked about at the howling crowd. The once sleepy, inebriated faces had become twisted and grotesque as they responded to Steele in a language of primal rage.

She leaned over to Spike.

"Is this normal?" she asked over the din, keeping one cautious eye on her howling neighbours.

"All part of the act." Replied Spike, who, as usual, was playing the casual observer.

Stainless Steele ceased his battle cry. Gradually, he lowered his arms and brought his head forwards, signifying an end to the crescendo of howls. The arena was then filled with the sound of weary bodies dropping back into seats as the audience were vacated by whatever bestial force had possessed them only moments ago.

Now that Steele was stood face forwards his hard, grizzled features were apparent. Everything about him reeked of fighting, from his powerful upper body, to his scarred, misshapen face. His brow hung low, obscuring much of his eyes. But even so, it was his eyes that were his most prominent feature. They were a brilliant, almost metallic blue, and frigidly cold to match the soul they windowed.

Steele turned and slowly made his way to the opposite side of the ring to his opponent. Once he was well out of the way, the ring announcer moved to the centre of the ring.

"This match is set for one fall." he announced. "No more than one competitor may leave this ring alive. To the winner will go the B.R.A Pit-fighting championship, and the chance to live to fight once again."

Faye leaned over to Spike again.

"Shouldn't there be some sort of belt, or something?" she asked. "Some kind of award to show who the champion is."

"You're looking at it." Spike said.

Faye cocked an eyebrow.

"He's still alive." Spike explained. "That's the prize for winning in this business."

Faye looked back to the fighters.

"So, they go out there and put their lives at risk every week for no good reason." she mused. "No wonder this sport appeals to * you*, Spike."

The ring announcer began to pace backwards slowly towards the opening in the ring wall.

"And now," he proclaimed. "Ladies and gentlemen, gangsters and bosses. . . let's get ready to rumble!"

At this, a great cheer swelled up from the stands. The announcer turned and trotted towards the doorway just as two burly men began to push a large, metal panel across it from within the corridor. Quickly he slid through the narrow gap that remained, and then the doorway was sealed with a resounding clash of concrete and steel.

The two fighters, now sealed in the ring together, turned to face one another. Po brought his bound fists up across his face, and raised his body up onto his toes. He then began to bound gently from one foot to the other, as if performing some subtle war dance to unnerve his foe.

At first, Steele stood perfectly still, his clenched fists held rigidly at his side. Then, baring his teeth, he tensed every formidable muscle in his hulking body, causing him to visibly increase in size. A labyrinth of veins rose up across the surface of his biceps, each one pounding as the power surged through the fighter's arms. Steele was ready.

Po moved first. Deftly he glided across the ring, following a meandering course so as to maintain an element of surprise until the last possible moment.

Steele did not move from his position, choosing to watch intently as his opponent approached.

Reaching a point only a few feet from Steele, Po stopped, and began to bob and weave on the spot as he prepared for the first strike.

An arc of silver lighting shot from the floor, veiled in a cloud of glittering sand. This was followed immediately by a metallic clash of thunder and a rain of brilliant blue sparks.

Faye looked on in disbelief. The first two moves of the game had been played almost too fast for her to see. Po was now perched on his left foot with his right foot held almost at his own head height, having deployed it in the first attack. However, his strike had met with the back of Steele's open hand, which he now held mere inches from his own face; mere inches from his death.

Po withdrew his foot, and bounced back a few feet. Then, he pounced upon Steele once again, throwing a vicious, stabbing kick at his opponent's abdomen.

There was a second hale of sparks, and Po's foot was flung aside by the force of Steele's backhanded block. Po momentarily stumbled backwards, thrown from his balance. He was able to right himself quickly, but this time, it was Steel who made the advance.

The imposing fighter began to pace towards his prey, the tempo of his step quickening as he drew closer.

Po floundered, caught on the point of Steele's impaling stare. Clearly, he had intended to essentially end the match in the first couple of blows, thereby preventing Steele from getting into his stride. But now that his strategy had been batted away, along with his seemingly feeble attacks, the unfortunate fighter was faced with the horrifying prospect of a toe-to-toe fight with the longest ever, reigning pit-fight champion. Now he hopped unsurely between feet, with both his plan and his confidence in tatters.

With his final stride, Steele launched his right fist towards Po's chest. His glinting knuckles were met by Po's lustrous shin as he drew it up in defence. But still, the sheer force of Steele's attack caused Po to stagger backwards once again, this time ending up with his back to the wall, both literally and figuratively.

Steele lunged at Po again. Unable to react to block Po leapt aside, and turned in time to see Steele's fist rasping by only centimetres away. Steele's knuckles ploughed instead into the cinderblock wall, causing the face of one of the blocks to erupt in a plume of dust and pulverised concrete.

Po was momentarily mesmerised by the cloud of debris as he contemplated just how close he had come to death. This was a mistake. Without pause, Steele lashed out at his foe with his balled left fist. Caught unawares, Po had little time for a block, and in a single thoughtless moment, deployed his forearm in place of his shin.

Faye grimaced as the arena was filled by the sickening crack of shattering bone, and the pathetic cry of agony emitted by her fighter. The crowd roared at the sight and sound of Tiger Po's misfortune, before settling into a steady baying for his demise.

"Do you think it's too late to change my bet?" Faye asked Spike as she watched her ten thousand Woolongs being cruelly beaten to death.

Spike glanced across at her,

"I knew a guy who tried that once." he said, and then turned back to the fight. "You know, it was snowing on the day they buried him as well."

Faye's heart sank. Reluctantly, she returned her attention to the massacre.

"I knew I should have stuck to the ponies." she muttered.

Meanwhile, Po was still reeling from the crushing blow to his left arm. The appendage was hanging limp at his side, the deep red, oxygenated blood streaming from where a serrated dagger of bone had pierced it from within. He had begun backing away, every step evidently causing him intense pain as his pulverised arm was jerked and jarred.

Steele was in a steady pursuit, his cold eyes locked on Po as he paced along the trail of blood stained sand.

In desperation, Po threw an uncertain kick at his opponent. This one lacked either the power or precision of his previous efforts, and was comfortably evaded by Steele, who simply leaned away as Po's metal foot whistled by his faced.

Po winced as he stumbled back, his balance compromised by the lost use of one of his arms. His left hand lingered over the smashed limb, longing to cradle it, and yet reluctant to touch for fear of causing further pain. Looking up, he once again laid eyes on the approaching Steele. Drawing strength from the pain and humiliation he was being subject to by the veteran fighter, Po let out a sharp cry and dropped to the ground, swinging his prosthesis out into a sweeping kick at Steele's legs.

Steele, in a moment of near precognition, reacted to the manoeuvre at the very instant it was deployed. Dropping to one knee, he drove his fist down towards the ground. The pile-driving blow landed squarely on the joint between the foot and ankle of Po's prosthetic leg.

A shower of white-hot sparks leapt from the impact site, accompanied by the shrill buzz of warping mechanisms and the spine-chilling scream of a man in singular agony.

Steele raised his fist, allowing the near defeated Po to scramble away. Po continued to bark and yelp as every nerve ending connecting flesh to machine rioted with extraneous bolts of electrical current. The fighter then toppled onto his left side in his efforts to escape, causing himself yet more torture as the salty, abrasive sand was driven into his wounded arm.

Steele slowly rose to his feet. He stood motionless once more, watching in silence as his broken adversary struggled to pull himself up onto his remaining good leg.

Po finally reached verticality. With one mangled arm swinging from its socket, and a mass of warped metal dragging through the sand, he slowly began to circle the periphery of the ring. However, having lost a considerable amount of blood, and being almost delirious from the unnatural level of pain he was experiencing from the tiny bolts of lightning that still arced between the severed conduits in his right leg, he was in no longer in any condition to fight.

Spike turned his attention from the `fight' just as Po was dragging himself to just a few meters in front of where he was sat. Reaching into his jacket, he removed a cigarette and then placed it between his lips. Again, he reached into his jacket, and produced his silver lighter.

Faye turned to Spike, her face painted in shades of horror, disappointment and disgust.

"Hey, aren't you watching the rest of the match?" she asked, adopting a look of bemusement at Spike's apparent disinterest.

"What match?" Spike replied, flicking open the lid of the lighter. "This one was over before it started."

Just as Spike raised his thumb to ignite the lighter, his attention was caught by a voice coming from the stands behind him. The lone voice, just barely audible over the chorus of bloodthirsty howling that dominated the ambience, was chanting the word `hammer' over and over. Another, and another then joined that voice as the chant began to spread. In moments, the chant had swept across the stands like a wildfire, consuming crowd member after crowd member as a blaze would fuel.

Spike looked out at the ring where Po was stood unsteadily, back to the stand, with Steele stood only a couple of meters from him. For a moment, he forgot entirely about the waiting cigarette and his duty to light it as he became lost in the living memory of fights past.

Steele looked into the crowd. Slowly, his piercing eyes cut a swathe across the audience as he took in their repetitive request. Then, he looked back to Po and began to draw back his right fist, an action that caused the crowds chanting to plunge back into a discordant song of a savage bloodlust.

Silence fell across the arena, as Steele's fist was fully withdrawn. The only sounds that could be heard were the bass growl of Stainless Steele's breath, and the soft patter of Tiger Po's blood upon the floor of the ring as it continued to course from his mangled arm. This persisted for a few seconds, and then Steele's breath ceased.

The fist flew forwards. In an instant, it struck Po's forehead, ploughing through bone and tissue with a stomach-turning crunch. The result was an explosion of crimson debris that burst from the point of impact and rained into the stands behind. Po's body twisted and reeled as Steele followed through, pirouetting away from the assailant before collapsing to the ground in a twisted, lifeless heap.

All around, the crowd erupted into a frenzy of ecstatic cheering. Almost every last audience member leapt to their feet, causing the stands to shudder once more. The cacophony of delighted cries soon faded seamlessly into a steady chant of `Stainless', prompting the Steele to throw his head back and release a howl of triumph as he stood over the smashed corpse of what was now scarcely recognisable as his opponent, Tiger Po.

Spike blinked as the sensation of warm drops of blood bursting on his skin brought him out of his trance. Raising his free hand, he wiped some of the fluid from his face and then examined the red smear on his fingers. He then wiped his hand on his jacket.

As he had expected, the fight had been over fairly quickly. In fact, if anything, it had taken slightly longer even than his more conservative estimates.

Spike smiled to himself as he looked down upon the still howling Steele.

"Nice going, champ." he said softly.

He then returned his attention to the lighter in his hand. Raising his thumb once more, he attempted to activate the device. However, it stubbornly refused to light. It did not take Spike long to notice that the reason for this was a large drop of blood that had fallen across the gas vent in the exposed top of the lighter.

"Damn it." he muttered.

Spike closed the lighter, and replaced it into his pocket. He then turned to Faye.

"Hey Faye, do you have a. . ."

Spike stopped mid-sentence. The cause of his silence was the sight of Faye, as it seemed that the unfortunate bounty huntress had taken the brunt of the debris thrown from Steele's final attack on Po. Now her face was spattered in a thick soup of blood and flesh, and her hair matted with the same. The gory mess also extended down the front of her once immaculate dress.

She was staring out across the ring, but not at anything specific. Her mouth was closed tight to prevent any of the human detritus from entering, and her left eyebrow twitched spasmodically, denoting her quiet horror at what had just happened to her.

For a moment, Spike searched for something to say. But he soon surrendered, realising that there was no witty one-liner that could possibly make an impact on Faye in her current state of mind.

Without warning, Faye rose to her feet. She turned from Spike and, without so much as a goodbye, began to force her way past the row of celebrating spectators.

Spike watched her leaving, and then looked back to the grisly scene in the ring. He had a feeling that Faye would not be back.

Steele eventually ceased his victory cry. Coolly, he cast a final, disdainful look down upon the battered body of Po, then turned and began to make his way out of the ring. He marched across the bloodstained sands of the arena and arrived at the doorway just as the metal panel was being hauled aside. He then passed through the door and vanished beneath the stands.

A few moments later, two syndicate stewards emerged into the ring, followed closely by the ring announcer. One of the stewards was carrying a rolled up piece of plastic beneath one arm. He and his companion trotted across to the corpse of Po, and began to unroll what turned out to be a body bag. The carrier of the bag drew open the long zip down its front, and then joined his colleague in the messy endeavour of shifting what remained on Po into the bag.

The announcer took up his post at the centre of the ring. Raising his microphone he addressed the audience, most of whom had already begun to leave.

"Ladies and gentlemen." he said, gesturing towards the empty doorway. "Your winner, and still the B.R.A pit-fighting champion. . . Stainless Steele!"

This time, the ring announcer's cry of Steele's name received little response from the tired crowd. Each seemed more interested in departing and returning to their homes.

"Thank you for joining us this evening." he continued. "On behalf of the Blue Rat Alliance, I hope you enjoyed the show and I wish you a safe journey home. Goodnight everyone."

The announcer allowed his mike arm to fall at his side. He then sighed, and gave a look of weary irritation at the fact that very few were paying any attention.

The ring announcer watched as the stewards dragged the fully laden body bag past him, and then turned and followed them out through the gap in the ring wall.

Spike remained for a little while, watching quietly from his seat as the crowd slowly drained away via the exits around the warehouse, and while those unable to leave under their own power were hauled away by the stewards. Gradually, the buzz of the exiting throng grew quieter and quieter, until finally the arena was all but deserted.

Spike drew in a lung full of war, smoky air. He exhaled slowly, watching as his breath disturbed the silently swirling haze.

"I guess it's time for me to earn my keep." he sighed.

Spike removed the unlit cigarette from his mouth and replaced into the inside pocket of his jacket. He then hauled himself out of his chair, and began to make his way out of the arena.