by L. M. Vila
Just a few more feet separated them from the four-cornered ring. They walked up the short steel steps and glided through the ropes one at a time. Meryl boldly shot her finger out at the man known as Ryoo Myung-Dae and shouted one last insult to stir the pot.
“This weak sack of brainless meat is about to feel the sheer, unadulterated power of the incredible Hot Shit Johnny Rage!”
Although unwarranted, it certainly had a uniquely positive effect in cementing Meryl's role as Onyx. The microphone dropped on and she promptly kicked it into the crowd. Her blatantly disregard for authority and procedures should seal the deal quite nicely. She gave Ryoo a snide last look, noticing that he wasn't the least bit impressed with her performance and headed in Michael's direction. His eyes were locked on that of his opponent, almost forgetting to breathe at some point.
Lips quickly pecked on Michael's cheek, nearly snapping him out of focus. Meryl made sure to give enough pressure to notice but not leave any lasting trails of black lipstick.
“Knock'em dead champ,” she whispered into his ear with an unexpected level of seduction
A heavy hand slapped against Michael's right buttock as Meryl sprung out of the ring and took her place in his corner. They'd only been on this assignment for barely a day and Michael feared that she had taken this role a bit too seriously. Hopefully this experience won't scar any of her other finer and more modest traits. With this level of dedication, fooling all of these people will be the least of his concerns.
Ryoo Myung-Dae bored his eyes through Michael’s heart. A cold and dismal look plastered on his expression, showing nothing but contempt for his soon to be dead opponent. All of the spectacular entrances or flashy clothing won’t protect him now. Logan requested that he go easy on him. Oddly enough, Ryoo wanted to rescind that order. Something about that man’s eyes bothered him. The way he looked at him with those still and unwavering expression spoke as if Ryoo wasn’t even an obstacle. Cockiness is a normal trait for this lot of savages yet Ryoo wasn’t feeling those emotions radiating in the opposite corner.
Despite his earlier behest, Michael fell into the role of Johnny Rage rather convincingly. He snapped his neck to each side with a satisfying crack. Michael bounced around the corner on the balls of his feet adding to the charade. A slight tinge of uneasiness tickled against the hairs on his neck. If Ryoo had injected himself with the Agent M drug, then his power would rival that of the Russian Kurtis; an experience Michael did not wish to relive.
The crowds’ voice was deafening. Sadistic chants of his Korean adversary’s name vibrated through every inch of Michael’s core. The referee, a skinny bald-headed stooge barely five and a half feet tall, called both fighters forward. He took his position way too seriously as he tried to explain the complexities of this fight’s one rule. Two men enter, only one can leave.
Standing within inches of each other created an intensity that could level mountains. Ryoo remained firm, trying to assert his dominance through cold hard stares. Michael, on the other hand, didn’t allow a singly emotion to pass through his eyes.
After the brief meeting, the referee sent each man back to the corner. Ryoo immediately followed while Michael paced himself back. Something about the Korean’s appearance struck him as odd. Not weird, but different and vaguely familiar. Michael cast a glance, surveying Ryoo’s entire body, and soon found the source of what had signaled his instincts. The baggy board shorts draped with mundane shinning colors didn’t bother Michael. It was the small strap right below it, tied to his left ankle, with an inscription in Japanese. Michael peered further, locking his eyes on an image of water and fire comingling in a circle existing against one another and for each other’s livelihood.
Thunderbolts crashed through his senses and thoughts. The overwhelming sense of familiarity had hit him harder than any fist ever has. That image would be forever bored into his mind as he spent most of his adolescence training in the very grounds it emanated from. Ryoo Myung-Dae wore the symbol of Yamatera clan; Michael’s surrogate family
March 23rd, 2013 10:20PM
Las Vegas, NV
Nicole Wells paced around the small confines of the Moble Command Center. These glorified Winnebago’s were never the epitome of luxury nor were they supposed to be. With millions of dollars’ worth of electronic surveillance and computer equipment lining every square inch, one would be hard pressed to try to squeeze in a reclining chair. Nicole shrugged those thoughts aside and checked her watch for the fifth time in the last hour. By her estimation, Michael’s fight should be starting within the next few minutes. Live updates from their undercover assistants and moles have been sporadic at best. The security force employed by Charles Logan must have been fairly impressive, not to mention diligent. What little information came in was usually muffled by the cheers and jeers of the audience.
Standing to her left, Adrian Fischer meticulously beat keys on his laptop after inviting himself to tag along. His reasoning couldn’t be rivaled seeing as it came straight from the book itself. Nicole couldn’t challenge him even if she dared to be insubordinate despite being the superior in the relationship. Keeping secrets would draw too much negative attention. In this game of cards, Nicole had a phenomenal poker face. She was certain Michael could get the information required without revealing her hand. Any mistakes would cost more than just a fictional chip count.
While she had her own reservations of Adrian’s character, he really was a model employee. His cool thinking in pressure situations became very reassuring when the heat started to rise. All of the decisions he made were sound and supported with an unbridled amount of solid logic. Taking the role of leadership came easy to him. Most of the assignments delegated to him were performed quickly, efficiently, and free from errors. A perfectionist at heart, Adrian Fischer was a forced to be reckoned with. In fact, the only problem Nicole had with him was that when the enemy wasn’t in his sights, she was always close in view.
Calling Adrian overzealous was an understatement. He frequently challenged Nicole’s authority while not appearing to do so at the same time, like he was purposely trying to get under her skin in order to pry reveal weaknesses of any kind. Although his concern was warranted, he focused too much energy on trying to exploit his fellow agents. In his world, no one was beyond reproach. Nicole would have been able to deal with that kind of thing if Adrian’s attention had been focused solely on the criminals they chased. However, not even his fellow agents could escape his grasp. And they were normally the first ones caught in his sights.
The situation and general feeling of unknowing wore on the last thread of the Commander’s patience. Thankfully the coffee here was strong. Nicole poured another cup of the oil colored substance and took a giant gulp before the bittersweet fragrance could touch her nose. This revitalizing fluid gave Nicole a renewed sense of presence.
“Excuse me Commander Wells,” Agent Fischer stated as he stepped away from the keyboard. “If I may interject, this is your fourth cup of coffee within the hour. Are you certain that’s wise?”
First he questions the severity of this mission and now he’s playing hen mother to his superior. Nicole hoped he was just trying to crack wise but that would be too painfully uncharacteristic of this gentlemen.
“Just trying to ease the tension Agent Fischer. It’s not like I can really smoke in here, now can I?”
A witty retort should hopefully silence any further inquiries about the matter. Given the fact that Nicole never even smoked a cigarette in her life should elevate the quip even higher.
“It’s not that Commander. I’m worrying about your condition,” he replied, “from earlier.”
His needle of logic pricked against Nicole’s chest. That brief flare up in her heart couldn’t have come at a worse time. If this was another instance of her Sarcoidosis flaring up then his concern would be reasonable. Nicole wouldn’t admit it either way. Better to placate the animal with a treat rather than stand on rocky ground.
“I’ll be fine. Tha
nk you for your concern Agent Fischer.”
That last part wasn’t as wholeheartedly appreciative as it should have sounded. With all due respect, he should have minded his own business. Her condition had nothing to do with this case nor would it ever. Maybe Nicole should have taken his words a bit more lightly. After all, he was simply showing some compassion to his superior. However, if Adrian was just trying to get under her skin, it worked.
“Ms. Wells,” called another voice from the entrance of the mobile command center.
Nicole gladly stepped away from her affectionate conversation with Adrian and greeted the gentleman that called out to her.
“Mr. Prince,” she replied extending her arm forward and shaking her hand. “I didn’t expect to see you here this evening.”
“I couldn’t let your team have all the fun,” he teased. “This is a joint operation after all. What would my guys think if I went home while they took down billion dollar felon? That would be a little out of character, wouldn’t it?”
The Special Agent in Charge of the Las Vegas F.B.I. office had a lot of similarities to Nicole’s predecessor. Although he had a less experience in the role, Thomas Prince was a born workaholic. Most of his employees and fellow S.A.C.’s knew that anything under a ten hour workday for Thomas must have been a special occasion or a holiday. The Las Vegas field office didn’t have the same quantity of staff members compared to the Los Angeles office but their record speaks for itself. White collar criminal activity is their bread and butter and works well in a town that sees more money in one day that most people will make in fifty lifetimes.
After breaking off the handshake, Nicole stepped aside and allowed her colleague to move through. Thomas quickly greeted the other S.A.C. on duty and got straight down to business.
“What’s the current situation?”
“The last update we received stated that Agent Madison’s bout would be starting in the next ten minutes,” chimed Agent Fischer. “That was fifteen minutes ago.”
“Are we not receiving live updates?”
Nicole shook her head as casually as she could without letting the frustration of the matter get to her.
“It’s impossible to transmit consistent updates given the level of security in place and the overall ferocity of the audience.”
“Ferocity?” Thomas questioned.
That’s something he’d consider normal for an Oakland Raiders crowd or Boston Red Sox but these were high class business executives. Surely Nicole was exaggerating.
“You can’t be serious.”
In their line of work, Nicole believed it best to let the evidence speak for itself. She turned a dial to increase the audio volume from one of their moles. Vile and disgusting words spewed with an uncanny velocity. The ones that Thomas was able to make out in the first few seconds would have been enough to traumatize a convent for life. Nicole immediately silenced the dribble after Thomas looked like he had his fill but not before getting a key piece of information that slipped through the audio cracks.
“Looks like they’re just about to get started,” Nicole stated after hearing a pair of agitated individuals begging for the fight to start.
She hoped things would get toned down and that some real information would be relayed as the bout went on but given the level of energy this crowd has demonstrated over the last hour or so, things could only get worse.
A gaseous eruption echoed within the thick walks of the subterranean battle arena symbolizing the start of the final match. Ryoo felt an unnerving tick inside the back of his throat. Necessity commanded he finish this match quickly. His employer would frown upon this decision but would understand nonetheless.
Ryoo exploded from his corner, blitzing from one end to the other before the crowd’s eyes could catch up. His right fist rested at the hip, cocked and ready to launch. The target’s golden tipped locks were in range. He fired. The punch cracked against the frail resistance of the surrounding air ready to decimate any unfortunate substance caught in its path.
Wind scrapped against the shallow and empty air that Michael Madison once resided. That style of attack was all too familiar. The Yamatera clan had spent centuries developing it and has been regarded a close family secret for countless generations and yet somehow, Ryoo had received training from that family. Michael’s presumption had now been verified. It was a hard pill to swallow.
Disbelief must have taken over Ryoo’s frame of mind. It would appear the very thought of missing an attack wasn’t a part of his basic programming. There wasn’t a human alive that could match the raw power, speed, and fighting prowess of anyone able to withstand the effects of the Agent M drug. By all intents and purposes, Michael should have been killed; his blood spilled all over the filthy arena floor. Fragments of sticky gray brain matter should have been dripping off the edges of Ryoo’s knuckles, still attempting to process the thought of what just occurred with what little life it had left. And yet, the F.B.I. agent lived.
As Ryoo turned to meet his opponent, instincts told him to throw up his guard and not a moment too soon. Nerves in his arms swelled up and shouted as if they had individually burst with the force of an exploding star. Michael’s kick had so much force it dragged Ryoo to the southern corner with both feet firmly planted on the ground. Even the callous skidding caused by the attack should have been an afterthought but Ryoo felt the pain resonate all the way into his core. In less than five seconds, Ryoo’s felt something he hadn’t experience in longer than he could remember. His confidence started to wane. Logan had made a gross underestimation. There is definitely more than meets the eye concerning that man. Ryoo intended to uncover the truth the only way he knew how.
The stained brick inlay of the arena floor could barely hold against the push of Ryoo’s jump. He leaped into the air, flying nearly ten feet off the ground. The opponent’s gap had shortened in the blink of an eye. Michael was now in range. Ryoo flipped forward and sent his heel crashing down. Unfortunately, the ancient masonry of their fighting pedestal wasn’t powerful enough to contain this strength this time around. Chunks of brown and red debris spat forth. The ground vomited at the site of the attack and sent disgusting bits of its former self scattering upwards across the faces of each fighter.
A string of new attacks erupted from the crash site putting Michael back on the defensive. Desperation danced around the parameter of Ryoo’s conscious but soon perished as his body became infused with the warrior’s spirit. All of the training and guidance he received had been subsided. Ryoo unleashed punches and kicks in lighting fast succession as if he were possessed by deity far greater than himself. With each passing strike, Ryoo felt his tension rise. He hadn’t landed a single clean hit. Most of his attacks struck empty space. Opting away from the calm and precision attacks his training dictated suddenly grew into a bad decision blow by blow.
Michael maneuvered through the barrage a little easier than he previously imagined. His opponent may have learned an ancient form of combat from the Yamatera clan but he certainly didn’t perfect it. If Ryoo stopped attacking now, Michael would have been satisfied with that analysis but as the attacks progressed and grew seemingly more aggressive and desperate he noticed something off. The style itself was flawed. It wasn’t moving with the swiftness and precision he had been thoroughly trained in. Each attack used too much energy and force. Much more than what would be typically required.
The epiphany slapped Michael in the face with strength almost equal to that of his opponent. Ryoo may have learned the Yamatera’s style but not at his current enhanced level of strength. The Agent M drug had given him nearly immeasurable power but Ryoo had never trained while wielding it as such. That’s why his attacks were off. He never learned how to properly match his strength to the style; something Michael had perfected before puberty. That didn’t necessarily didn’t give Michael the victory outright but the odds now tilted into his favor.
Ryoo pulled back his fist after pushing Michael away with a rising knee strike. The ne
w attack rocketed forth carrying with it a payload that could reduce concrete to dust. In the midst of all of the controlled flailing, Michael was surprised to see a punch with actual technique behind it. He telegraphed the swing and rolled his right arm through Ryoo’s extended branch. Michael locked the hold in place, seizing him by the wrist then jamming it behind his back and grabbing Ryoo by the throat with his free arm. This classic move known as a Kimura or chicken-wing hold is good at disabling an opponent and shutting him down for good. Michael required the former but spared Ryoo of the latter. Right now, he needed information.
“Where did you get that band?” Cursed Michael through the slits in his teeth.
If someone caught him talking to Ryoo, it could catch the wrong kind of attention. To add to the deception, Michael kept his speech in Japanese knowing the Korean would understand him since there’s no way he could have been taught by the Yamateras without it.
Ryoo continued to struggle through Michael’s anaconda strength grip. It was one thing to be bested in the ring by avoiding a few punches. Being trumped in pure strength after a dosage of the power enhancing formula created a slew of new questions. The first of which had to be asked.
“Who the hell are you?” Replying in his native Korean tongue.
Michael was now given the opportunity to instill some much needed psychological intimidation. He quickly pulled up a name he hadn’t been called since his days on the hunt for the FBI’s Most Wanted Fugitives. It was something the criminals began to spread as his six month reign of terror against these individuals was in its infancy. Although a bit too tacky for Michael’s taste, the name wasn’t meant to compliment. It was intended as a warning for anyone that would dare draw his ire.
