Just throwing this up there with a threadbare proofread so I'll have more time to work on the main fight.

Disclaimer: Travis and Smoker don't belong to blah blah blah blah blah.

A Winner Is Two: Desperate Struggle

Relocation

Travis's eyes shot open. This wasn't where he had fallen asleep. He jerked into a sitting position and lashed out wildly with his arm, but only managed to tear the IV out of his arm. "Bloody fucking Mary!" he yelled. Clutching his left wrist with his other hand, he blinked and looked around. He was in a room that was obviously a sick bay of some sort – white beds on wheels, curtains, and medical machinery everywhere – but also obviously part of the BORED infamous volcano lair, judging by the stainless steel make of the walls. He wasn't alone – a couple of the other beds were occupied by some of Ofdensen's men. A doctor, dressed in the traditional white lab coat but also in a Klokateer's executioner hood (a jarringly effective combination), was treating another patient on the next cot. Travis realized with a groan that it was Smoker, sitting on the side of his bed as the doctor pulled bandages off of his shoulder.

"I haven't been injured in the line of duty in years," he growled. "I forgot how much the wound-cleaner stuff hurts. Touchdown's awake."

The doctor's head snapped up. "So he is. Alright, Commodore. The wound seems to have healed cleanly. I still don't think it's wise to go out in the field while you have staples holding your shoulder together, and I don't recommend making a habit of it."

"Glad to see I'm not the only one who got jobbed during a fight," Travis said coolly.

"He caught me off-guard, that's all." Smoker snorted. "It won't happen again." He clacked his teeth clacked nervously, and Travis realized he was seeing the guy without a cigar for the first time. "I'm gonna go out in the hall and light up."

"You can't smoke out there either," the doctor said disapprovingly.

"Look, pal, I'll follow your rules in here, but that's it." The Marine stomped out.

"Well, now, Mr. Touchdown. You gave me quite a scare when the Commodore brought you in. Punctured lung, broken ribs, shallow but severe burns on your chest; I wouldn't have guessed you had won if they hadn't told me. I thought we'd have to do skin grafts, but you surprised us. It's amazing how well you take to… pretty much anything. There were some strange existing wounds, though… I've never seen anybody with a plate holding their sternum together like that."

"Yeah, well, assassin is an interesting job. How long was I out for?"

"Five days, but that's frankly surprising. Your personal effects are right here; we wanted to incinerate these clothes, but Mr. Ofdensen has your power of attorney when you're in this sick bay, and he figured you'd want to try and salvage them. You won't be wearing them anytime soon, though; I can tell you this shirt is pretty far gone, and there's concrete and mud ground into the pants and jacket."

Travis took the two large sealable plastic bags he had been handed, thanking the doctor dully. Something seemed off with this, but he quickly realized what it was. "You said Smoker brought me back?"

"Yeah. The Commodore was on his way back from his own fight when Mr. Curtiss detoured him over to you. He brought you in slung over his shoulder, but he was pretty gentle, considering his demeanor. He even brought your vehicle back to the garage."

"What?!" Travis hopped out of bed, grabbed the bags, and ran out the sick bay's doors (which were automatic and doubled, to accommodate the wheeled beds). The doctor called something about bed rest after Travis, but he didn't really give a damn. Smoker was living up to his name just outside, leaning against the wall and staring at his truncheon like it was the most interesting goddamn thing in the world. "Why did you save my ass?" Travis demanded, painfully aware now that he was wearing a hospital gown that bared said ass for all to see.

Smoker glared down at him. "It's not because I like you. It's because I'm a military leader, and any half-decent military leader is taught not to let his comrades die when it can be avoided." He rummaged around in his jacket pocket. "Here," he grunted, tossing a key to Travis. "I got your giant-ass bike back into the garage. It's fine, except for some mud and scratches. You were right; it is a good ride."

"What's up with you?" Travis asked, slipping the key into one of his bags-o-stuff. "Normally you're more eager to piss me off than compliment my ride."

"What's it to you, asshole?"

"That's better," Travis said with a toothy and alarming grin. "Seriously, I owe you one for this."

"You don't owe me anything." Smoker turned to leave.

"No, really. I wouldn't put myself in the debt of some jack-off like you lightly. You pulled my ass out of the garbage back there, and then you treated my ride like it was your own."

Smoker sighed, a cloud of smoke thick enough to set off a fire alarm billowing out from his lips. "Honestly, I was glad to have work to do that didn't involve killing."

"What's wrong with killing?" Travis asked standoffishly. Even if he owed the guy, he wouldn't let his profession be insulted.

Smoker raised a grey-green eyebrow. "The fact that you can even ask that question with a straight face means you're screwed up worse than I thought. It's killing. You're taking another person's life, obliterating them from this plane of existence. It should be self-evident."

Travis smiled knowingly. "You've just gotta stop thinking of other people as… people. It's easy once you start thinking of how you're better than them. I thought you'd know how to do this shit. You are a soldier, aren't you? You kill for a living!" He was just staring. "What?"

"That doesn't mean I can just turn SOCIOPATHY on and off, dammit! And for the record, I don't kill for a living. I win."

Travis shrugged and turned around. "Who said anything about turning it off?" He made for the elevator, then decided to turn around again and walk backwards to deal with the hospital gown thing. "I'll return that favor, just you wait."

---

The doc was right – his T-shirt (dammit, a collectable!) was ruined. His jacket, underwear and pants could be saved, and his shoes just needed a rinse under a garden hose. His glasses were fucking GONE, though. Ah well. He had brought a few spare outfits. Travis threw his old clothes, minus the shoes, in his room's laundry chute, and changed into his tan scale-print Crocodile T-shirt, his matching brown Rock Snake jacket and Rock Python jeans, and his bronze Scale belt. Lacking any sunglasses that truly fit the color scheme, he threw on some orange-lensed ones and his lucky Santa Destroy wristband.

He found his glove and weapons in the other bag, along with his keycard, cell phone, wallet, and MP3 player with earbuds (the sum total of his pocket contents). The cell phone was cracked but serviceable, aside from the fact that it currently only got service to other numbers within the shield. His MP3 player was broken, but it was an old model anyway. Most upsetting was that his Tsubaki. Mk I was gone, leaving only the Mk II and III. It was by no means his best beam sword (the second was much more powerful, and the third was nearly as powerful as that and faster), but it was still a regrettable loss.

Feeling ravenous, he stopped at the VIP mess hall for breakfast – except he discovered it was supper time on arrival. He shrugged it off and enjoyed the food, and noticed Sakyo, the BORED exec who had originally hired him, entering just as he finished. Two of his goons, a pair of mean-looking dudes wearing a yellow sun-themed suit and a grey-blue moon-themed suit, flanked him. "Hey, boss," Travis called, slinking over. "I kinda wrecked my outpost during my fight. What should I do?"

The two goons directed their killing intent Travis's way, and he was surprised by how strong it was. He made a quick mental note that Sakyo went the extra mile and hired premium henchmen and filed it away as Sakyo calmed them with a subtly raised hand. "Feel free to take some time off here at headquarters while you heal. Shadow's been sulking around ever since Robotnik and Ginger showed him up, and I could send him out instead for a while. You did fine work, Touchdown. Membrane was potentially very dangerous if he hacked our mainframe, and he had no intention of following our rules."

Travis shook his head in what was, by his standards, a polite refusal. "Thanks, but I feel fine. I'd rather get back out there."

"Really? Well, who am I to stop you? Feel free to pick a new outpost. Which one did you wreck?"

"The middle one to the south. You know, north of the big lake."

"Oh, yes. Well, why not the one north of that? It's close to the base, which is good. The contestants have been moving farther inland as a whole."

"Nah, I saw that one. There's no cover near it, which is good for a sniper camp, but I'm a swordsman. I'll figure something out."

---

He stepped into the elevator, swiped his keycard, and hit the button for the garage. It wasn't that he didn't like the base itself, it was the company; he didn't mind BORED's three reps, but the Klokateers and CIA goons were all polite to him in the halls. It was WEIRD. Back in Santa Destroy, anybody Travis passed on the street would gladly urinate on his shoes, just to show how they felt about their neighbors. These guys and their insincere deference was just wrong. And then, there were all the creepers hired to be Travis's allies…

The elevator jerked to a halt and the doors opened, allowing Joruus to stride in with a sort of jerking glide. Speak of the fucker. He's probably going to say something polite to me, too. He'll say "Good evening" at me – not to me, but at me, like he's the Grim Motherfucking Reaper. Just "Good evening." Okay. Here it comes.

"I felt the energies from your battle all the way from here," he intoned.

Alright, not exactly wishing me a good evening, but I still hate the fucker. "What's your point?"

"You're letting yourself go to waste," Joruus snapped. "All that raw power, and you're not training yourself in the ways of the Force at all. Worse, you're letting yourself be drawn to the Dark Side. Don't you realize you're better than these people?"

"Actually, yes. I was trying to explain that to Smoker earlier. I am better than-" Travis waved an arm around expansively, but the elevator wall cut his gesture short "…these people. But what does that have to do with any of your cult shit?"

The old man's eyes blazed, and Travis found himself lifted and pinned to the wall without Joruus so much as lifting a finger. "It's not cult shit! It is merely far beyond the comprehension of most of this planet's residents!"

Travis stared. "Did you corner me here in the elevator on purpose?"

"Of course I did! Because I'd hate to see your natural Force sensitivity wasted! Do you know how rare it is to tap into its energies without so much as an hour of training? You already have such power…" the elevator dinged, slightly disrupting Joruus's focus; Travis found he was able to mentally will himself out of the man's grasp.

"Make your point," Travis muttered. He really wanted to brush this guy off, but for once he didn't really feel like fighting. It's not because I'm worried about losing, am I? That'd be pathetic, but I've never had a problem fighting loonies before. Maybe I'm just getting a bad feeling about the consequences if I start shit with other Enforcers. Then again, I'm pretty sure I could make a case for self-defense at this point…

Joruus had composed himself enough to interrupt Travis's train of thought. "Let me TEACH you! You have such power – I CAN'T let it go to WASTE!"

"Much as it always appeals to me to get stronger, I'm gonna have to say, 'fuck off!' I'm gonna go get some fresh jungle air." Travis stepped out of the elevator and let the doors close behind him on the sputtering Joruus, heading for the garage. "Fucking basket case."

His Schpeltiger was muddy and scratched, as Smoker said, but seemed mostly fine. There were, among other things, a hose, soap, buckets, some rags, some wax, and an electric buffer in the garage, so Travis spent a solid hour and a half shining up his bike. He knew it'd just get messed up again, but he felt the impact left by his vehicle was stronger when the colors were brighter. Finally, when he'd had his fill of polishing the thing, he doubled back to the mess hall and grabbed a few bottles of water and Gatorade before setting out. He didn't notice the other pair of eyes watching his progress, as they were watching through his own mind.

End of Chapter

The two henchmen at Sakyo's side have names not meant to be spoken by humans. For convenience, you can call them Mr. Shine and Mr. Bright. Yes, they are demons in human form.

My narration for Travis's mind is modeled a bit after Harry Lockhart's earlier in the tournament, thanks for asking. Travis's train of thought is clearly of a more malevolent bent, though.