An older man with a husky voice nodded. “You might be right, Sue. But we’ve got some hungry kids here who are just as dedicated. This ain’t any ordinary fight. What are your thoughts, Widowmaker?”
The camera shifted to a former champion with a stoic expression. “I think we’re in for a good show. I just heard Mr. Zeus has found himself a new champion.”
“Who? One of his regulars?” Sue asked.
The crowd suddenly erupted as lights strobed. All three commentators turned toward the arena. Theodor Zeus strutted down the ramp in cowboy boots, a white suit, and his oversized hat, microphone in one hand as he waved with the other.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone else out there! Tonight I present my contender, my warrior, my champion… The Berserker!”
Fireworks exploded and smoke filled the air as The Berserker walked down the ramp. His antlered helmet gleamed, and he carried a massive sword in one hand. His expression was pure menace as he made his way to the ring.
“Who is that?” Sue asked. The other commentators only shrugged.
Zeus continued, “And his first opponent will be William Smith of Austin, Texas!”
A far less dramatic entrance followed. A muscular man in standard MMA gear—pads on his elbows and knees, a helmet, and fighting gloves—walked down the opposite ramp. He was built similarly to Berserker, but without the theatrical presence.
Widowmaker commented, “I don’t think the Berserker can use that sword. The rules say no killing, but I’m not sure what they say about actual weapons.”
Zeus waited until both fighters stood opposite each other. “Tonight we run this as a king-of-the-hill. Every winner faces the next contender until only one remains. Let the fight begin!”
The Berserker stabbed his sword into the mat near the corner, cracked his knuckles, and walked to the center of the ring. William Smith settled into a proper fighting stance. The two circled each other for a long moment, sizing one another up.
Then Berserker spread his arms wide, deliberately leaving himself open. William lunged with a swift kick aimed at the abdomen. Berserker caught the leg mid-strike and slammed William hard into the mat. The impact bent the man’s leg at an unnatural angle. William’s scream of pain cut through the arena. First man down.
Sue said quietly, “I think this is going to be an interesting night.”
Jordan’s leg bounced uncontrollably as he waited for his turn. EB hopped back and forth between checking with officials and returning to try to calm the nervous contender. They were in the holding area for the Atlanta match. This particular contest was structured as traditional one-on-one fights, with winners advancing to the next round.
“If I lose today, do I just go home?” Jordan asked.
EB answered, “Well, if you lose, then yes. But the Avatar never said you couldn’t try again later.”
“But if I lose, why would I try again?”
EB huffed. “Jordan, Jordan, Jordan. Stop only thinking about losing. You’re going to defeat yourself before your opponent even gets the chance. Don’t think about what happens if you lose—think about what happens when you win. Fame, fortune, an interview with that cute reporter they sent… She’s so cute. I might offer to do an interview just so I can talk to her. Do you think she’d like coffee with a fluffy bunny? I could bring her chocolates. I—” He noticed Jordan’s leg still bouncing. “Sorry. I get sidetracked. What was I saying? Right. Don’t worry. Just fight and do your best. You’re a good fighter.”
The door opened. A woman with a clipboard called, “Jordan Moore.”
He stood. “Right here.”
“He’s called The Mustang!” EB announced happily.
Jordan protested, “I didn’t—”
She scribbled on the clipboard. “Got it. You’re on.”
Jordan muttered, “I didn’t say my name was going to be The Mustang.”
“Just go with it,” EB said. “It’s cool. Now get out there and show them what training with BADGE looks like.” He hopped up and gave Jordan a firm slap on the shoulder.
Jordan forced himself to breathe steadily as he walked toward the door. Beyond it was a short path between the bleachers leading to the mat. Lights blazed, the crowd was loud, and music pounded. His face already appeared on the giant screen above the arena with the name “The Mustang” underneath. He had no idea how they had put that up so quickly.
“Next, we have The Mustang versus Stone Vulture!” the announcer called from the center of the ring.
Jordan climbed through the ropes and faced a man a full foot taller and twice as broad, pure muscle with a terrifying glare. Jordan recognized him immediately—a League hero who had recently been in the news for stopping a villain who tried to seize control of Cincinnati’s public works. This was no ordinary contender. He was an experienced morphonic superhero.
“I can do this. I can do this,” Jordan muttered under his breath. “Just put on a good show. Even if I lose, make it look good.”
The referee stepped between them. “Rules are simple. First to be knocked out loses. Fight starts with the bell.”
Jordan offered his hand. Stone Vulture crushed it in a punishing handshake, then stepped back. Jordan swallowed hard and waited for the bell.
Ding!
Stone Vulture swung immediately. Jordan slipped under the punch, then spun aside to avoid the follow-up. A third strike—a kick aimed at his face—came too fast to dodge completely. Jordan crossed his fists and took the impact on the backs of his hands, then spun and drove a hard chop into Stone Vulture’s side.
The bigger man staggered. He recovered quickly and launched a flurry of blows. Jordan ducked, weaved, and avoided every strike, beginning to read the pattern. He slid just far enough that a heavy fist whistled past his left ear. Now face-to-face, Jordan snapped a sharp jab into Stone Vulture’s nose. The larger fighter lurched backward, then instinctively lunged forward—only to meet a rising uppercut that crashed into his chin.
Stone Vulture hit the mat hard. It was over.
“Round to The Mustang!”
Jordan whispered, “I… I did it.”
EB, still perched on his shoulder and waving to the crowd, said, “This is only the beginning.”
Stone Vulture slowly pushed himself up, shaking his head. He stomped over to Jordan.
“Fight’s over, bub,” EB warned.
Stone Vulture simply smiled. “Good work, kid. You’ve got skill.” He patted Jordan on the shoulder and left the mat.
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