Thanks to: Laura-Wilkie, Readergirl99, Sana Lama Samaha, P.S. Sword, Jolinnn, Steinbock, Kath and write that wrong for the reviews, even though you'd read most of it before, it was great to hear you still enjoyed it.

USUAL WARNINGS APPLY. PLEASE SEE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.

EXTRA WARNINGS: More fight-scene binging. Sorry if you're bored of it... 'cause I'm not haha :)

Without further ado - here we go. We took the long way around, but here is the immediately subsequent chapter to the first snippet you saw, way back almost a month ago now.

Thank-you for being patient. Enjoy!


CHAPTER TEN - Luck of the Draw

The result of chance on a situation where the individual has no control over the outcome

Eddie O'Connell's "Fighting Talk" Gym, Dublin, Ireland - New Year's Eve

The man with the baseball cap pulled down low and shadowing his face, watched the winner of the fight disappear through the double-doors. The idiot on the tannoy was rallying more people up to put their names into the draw for the final fight. He smiled to himself.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Or, more accurately, they tapped him on the bottom of his shoulder blade, after perhaps trying to reach his shoulder.

"Hey you – you owe me a drink!"

"Do I now?" he asked straightening out of the stoop he'd been putting on to avoid being noticed.

The other man quailed slightly. "Well – n-normally I'd say so, yeah. But since you were just throwing it to Flex, I guess I can let you off."

"You can let me off?" the tall man repeated, somewhat disbelievingly.

"Yeah. I mean… Grant is a great trainer – you can see that in how Flex fights. But I think he's a bit harsh withholding water and all… So yeah. Just… throw your own next time, you got that?"

With that, the man turned around and pushed his way through the crowd, throwing one last, somewhat-nervous, glance over his shoulder to check he wasn't being followed by the giant – who shook his head.

Gobshites, the lot of them.

All mouth and no trousers. Not like the boys in the ring. No, he'd happily give each and every one of the jeering audience a proper fight of their own.

But just one would do for now. He glared at his target – who was chugging down yet another a can of beer and laughing with his friend – the aforementioned idiot on the tannoy.

Now, to make sure that happened…


"You're up, Flex," one of the runners called, banging on his door.

Dom opened his eyes slowly.

"Hey Flex – I said you're up. You coming? Or do I have to get your dad to come down here and get you?"

"He's not my dad," Dom growled, ripping open the door.

"Dad, step-dad, guy who's screwing your ma… Kid, I could give a shit," the runner - Paddy Vickers - drawled. "Now get out there and give them a show."

"You're not gonna tell me to go win?" Dom asked. That was this particular runner's usual advice, after all.

Paddy laughed, clapping him on the back. "You'll be lucky if you manage that tonight.

Which of course immediately had Dom about as riled as the 'your ma' comment.

"We'll see," he said, through gritted teeth.

"Just try come back in one piece - no-one can be arsed to take you to St Jimmy's tonight of all nights."

Dom ignored the fact the runner seemed convinced he would be in need of a hospital after his encounter with the next fighter and stepped through the door, jogging quickly up the steps. His latest rival was already there. Being a minor celebrity on the junior cage-fighting scene, he'd had a photo-shoot before the match. Again, this boy was bigger. More muscled than Redwood too, if a little shorter. He was lean, athletic and serious, giving off an air of nonchalant confidence. Domovoi has seen the likes amongst the older students at The Academy he aspired to be like. His opponent looked… trained.

Eddie welcomed them both to the cage in his usual manner, booming over the mood-setting music.

"In the red, he's a regular Superman of the scene – certainly our star of the evening – it's the regional champion of under sixteens and, ladies and gents, he's only gone and qualified for Irish Junior Champs next spring… Let's hear a big welcome for… Vinco!"

'Vinco' raised his arms, acknowledging the crowd's praise.

"And in the blue corner, looking ready to repeat that victory we saw from him earlier, facing the Superman – let's call him Flex Luthor!"

The crowd applauded the joke Eddie had clearly been working on all night and Dom went through his ridiculous flexing routine again. The other lad – Vinco – grinned at him.

"Something funny?" Dom growled over his gumshield.

"Nothing. Just I can tell you don't want to do that."

Dom scowled. The older boy was being almost… friendly.

The referee positioned them. "Alright boys, you know the rules. Good, clean fighting only."

They both nodded curtly, settling into stances. Dom noticed Vinco held his hands a little high. Probably a kicker, then.

"Ready…" said the ref, holding up his arms. "Set… Fight!"

He dropped them swiftly and stood back. For the second time that night, the fight was on.

Despite his friendly exterior, Dom found out Vinco meant business very early on. Before the round was up, the older boy had racked up high double-figure points easily and Dom had spent most of the time blocking and avoiding. He returned to his corner almost gratefully at the whistle, stumbling slightly.

"You're letting him walk all over you! What the fuck is wrong with you?" Paul roared at him through the mesh.

"I'm trying," Dom growled.

"Trying? Trying my bloody patience you mean!" Paul snapped. "Don't be so pathetic!"

It was times like this Dom was tempted to turn up at a police station with the dates for the next less-than-legal cage fight to be held at Eddie O'Connell's gym. It wouldn't have worked for this one. The vast majority of tonight was legal. The betting was a grey area, but it could be covered up with a bit of hush-money.

"Clearly you need more training," Paul said in disgust. "I knew you'd slack off, you little shite!"

"I already won you a fight tonight," Dom countered.

"And you'll win me another one," Paul snarled. "If you lose, that won't be the only beating you get tonight – am I clear?"

"Crystal," Dom spat bitterly, spinning back to the ring.

"Is that all you got? People told me you were good," Vinco said, grinning at him infuriatingly.

Dom didn't answer the taunt, instead settling into his fighting position and taking a deep breath. Calm. Passion is the enemy of efficiency.

"Round two… fight!" the ref ordered.

Dom threw a feigned punch with his favoured right hand. Vinco was smart enough to have noticed his opponent was right-handed. He was also smart enough to predict a feint. So Dom threw a double-bluffed, fake left jab and then almost immediately caught his opponent full on the side of the head with his right fist.

Vinco swore. "You sneaky little shit. That Grant guy teach you that?"

"Did he hell," Dom replied, leaping forward for a second shot. Vinco parried, wasting no more time on talking. He was considerably bigger than Dom – two rarities in one day – and was using his longer reach to his advantage, backing out of range and putting in hits from afar. He also had a good kick on him, which Dom found to his own discomfort when Vinco caught him solidly in the thigh, deadening his leg.

He staggered, which turned out to be a nigh-on terminal mistake for his chances of winning this fight, for it coincided with the exact moment Vinco landed, as light a dancer, onto his kicking foot and pirouetted, bringing his non-dominant foot up unreasonably high... It connected heel-first with Domovoi's temple without a resounding thwack.

Domovoi was grateful for his gumshield as his jaws clashed together in response to the impact. Ouch. His whole skull reverberated and his body went limp automatically as he crashed to the floor, every last ounce of his will in screaming, burning focus on staying concious.

The crowd gasped and cheered as Dom decked, but to some of their disappointment, he rolled, standing again and swaying with his hands drawn up only through muscle-memory. His consciousness was fading and more than a little of him would have been happy just to sit down right there on the canvas and wait until the strange, dull throbbing in his head had settled down. He couldn't yet feel the sharper pain of split skin, although clearly his eyebrow had just been bust open by the kick, for he barely saw Vinco coming back in for a follow-up attack, his left eye was so covered in a curtain of blood. He lunged on reflex, closing both eyes and trying to listen for the other boy's movements. The music, the crowd and the blow to the head made it much harder than blindfolded sparring in the Fowl Manor gym, but by pure luck he managed to land a glancing blow that at least made Vinco step back. As for damage-causing hits, he would need to recharge.

He opened his eyes and blinked, the world zooming in an out of focus along with his hearing. Something stood out from the roar of the crowd.

"Take him down!" Paul was screaming.

Great. Why don't you broadcast my next move, idiot?

But as much as he hated it, Paul was right. If he could get Vinco on the canvas, he could throw some moves that would be unaffected by his opponent's size. Just as he so successfully had with Redwood.

The only thing he had left to him was the element of surprise. Having only ever seen him fight once live and a few times on poor-quality videos, Vinco would not know that it didn't make much of a difference to the young Butler whether he was bleeding or not.

He went in for the knee – knowing Vinco would step out of range – and then threw himself forward. It was a foolhardy move and one that earned him a clatter around the ear for his troubles. Vinco had been watching the last fight more closely than he'd hoped, of course.

But despite his recent weight loss, Dom could throw himself with more force than one would expect. That, coupled with momentum of being barrelled into by an unexpected weight and an even more unexpected attack, left Vinco with no other response but to try to land tactically as he fell flat on his back.

Which he did.

Dom was surprised at the speed in which the other boy moved, which was stupid, he berated himself. The boy didn't get to be regional champion by chance alone.

He tried to pull back, but because he had used a cross between a judo throw and a rugby tackle to down the larger boy, he found his arm trapped in a merciless grip.

Ah shit.

This, was not good.

He writhed, rearing back, but Vinco had him. All trace of friendliness gone, Vinco showed why he was number one in his age group for the country, executing a pro arm-bar. Dom clasped his hands together and folded into it, trying to release the pressure on his elbow as Vinco tried to level his arm straight and bend the joint the exact opposite way to that which it was supposed to and force his opponent to lie chest-down on the canvas. It was almost impossible to get Domovoi Butler to release his hands when he clamped them together – as many an unfortunate Academy student had found – but Vinco was an expert. He immediately employed his toughest breaking technique, not willing to risk an escape if he worked his way up his list of options. Had he not undergone so much training against it and had he not been used to simply gritting his teeth and bearing it when he experienced pain, Dom surely would have yelled out. As it was, it was only his tendons that screamed in protest as his jaw tightened and squeaked against the rubber of his gumshield once more.

"Tap out already, kid," Vinco said through gritted teeth. "Don't make me break your arm."

But Dom threw himself like a bear in a leg-trap. It had the exact opposite effect to what he had hoped. Vinco was obviously very adept at applying arm-bars, something Paul had neglected to tell him whilst warning him about the other boy's prowess as a fighter. Vinco flipped him over, twisting Dom's arm until it was crushed between his both legs and trapped him on the floor on his right side, ending up with his knee pressed against Dom's bleeding temple. The silken material of the shorts grew slowly damp, but still the younger boy didn't raise his free hand to pat the canvas in admission of defeat.

The crowd, who had never seen Flex pinned for so long, didn't know whether to cheer or boo.

"Come on, give it up. You've fought well. There's no shame in it!" Vinco tried again.

Dom lifted his hand… And reached over the knee clamped across his neck to snatch hold of his other again, pulling against Vinco's strength to relieve the strain by a few degrees. He kicked up a leg, trying to push it into Vinco's armpit and succeeding in kicking him in the collarbone.

Obviously frustrated he had managed to regain his counter-grip - and unwilling to receive another kick to the clavicle - Vinco used the strength in his legs to throw himself over – a full rotation – until Dom's hands parted company half a second before his wrists did with the rest of his arm, landing face-down on the canvas. The arm-bar was complete and Vinco took full advantage, levering on it. Dom gritted his teeth, arching his back in an effort to throw the other boy off his chest. But Vinco's legs were locked tight, calf flush against the back of his neck. Yet it wasn't over. So long as he was still moving, he only had to ride it out until the end of the round. If he only knew how many more seconds he had to withstand the agony in his arm…

"Tap out!" Vinco yelled at him, adding another few pounds of pressure.

Dom pushed himself onto his right elbow, shaking with the strain and kicking his left foot into Vinco's hip. It didn't have much effect beyond the older boy shifting his position so he couldn't so easily do it again.

"Just fecking tap already, kid!"

Dom couldn't risk bucking – if he did, he would probably dislocate his own elbow in the process.

How long?

It couldn't be long now – could it?

Blood dripped steadily from his brow, splashing onto the off-white canvas. He wasn't worried. Or at least not about that. Head wounds always bled more than they should. But the seconds seemed to drag and his thoughts turns to things more important than getting a clatter round the ears from Paul. His career, for one. A badly-broken elbow could easily scupper his chances of making it as a Diamond.

He raised his free hand…

"Eight seconds, boy," a gruff voice shouted from the crowd. "Seven… Six… breathe…"

Dom used the hand to instead to grab onto Vinco's ankle, jamming his thumb into the groove of the Achilles tendon and twisting mercilessly. Vinco made a noise of surprise, kicking out. His captive kept hold until the pressure released on his neck. Vinco kept the arm bar, but Dom closed his eyes, inhaling through his nose as best he could now that Vinco's leg wasn't crushing his windpipe to the cage-floor, zoning out from the pain.

"Five... four... hold it!"

For some reason, he trusted the voice.

Vinco made one last ditch effort to regain a proper hold, Dom managing to grab hold of an ankle again and wrench it from his throat, buying him another second of oxygen before he would be forced back face-down on the canvas with Vinco's thigh squeezing his skull into the floor...

The whistle went.

The pressure on his arm released instantly.

Vinco was furious, but he was fair.

"Why didn't you tap?" he snapped.

Dom rolled onto his knees and pushed himself up on his good arm. He shook his head, breathing deeply, muscles trembling. He could see little, round, black voids in the powerful glare from the cage lights. Paul was screaming at him to go to his corner to… well, get screamed at at a closer range, presumably. He wiped at his head with the heel of his hand and squinted through the wire mesh, trying to catch sight of the person who had given him a time check, because for half a second, he had almost thought that it had been…

"Get over here boy – you want water or not?!" Paul yelled at him. "You've already used half your break laying around on the floor like a kicked cur!"

Dom managed to stumble a jog to the corner, biting the nozzle of the water bottle shoved through the mesh and choking down a few mouthfuls of cold, stale water. Paul was harsh, but he wasn't so stupid that he would throw away his chance to win a bet because he was trying to make a point. Or at least not today. The sweat beading on Dom's face and the stream of blood from his bust eyebrow was joined by a spray from the bottle and he shook it off, running his taped hands over his head. It hurt to bend his left arm. Considerably. That was going to make things difficult.

"Wake up! You're losing, you know that?!" Paul said and his eyes were almost… panicked. "You better beat this punk senseless or he's gonna drive you into the ground. You get yourself into something like that again and he'll finish you! Look at your damn head – what did you let him do that for? Your mother is going to flip! Cutman – get over here!"

Billy was already there. He was well-versed in the trade, although he disliked the title. In actual terms, he was the fight doctor. Calling him a 'cutman' was, as far as he was concerned, like comparing a pilot to an air hostess. Yet still, his expertise made him an invaluable man to have in one's corner.

He beckoned Dom over. "Alright kid, lemme see that head."

Dom dipped his head obligingly towards the cage hatch and Billy shone a torchlight at him. He hissed through his teeth, but opened his 'box of tricks' all the same.

"Pressure," he said, handing the young fighter a cold, soaked towel whilst he rummaged for something else.

Dom crammed the fabric against his forehead, pressing painfully hard and closing his eyes.

"OK, switch," Billy said as he pulled a flat piece of metal with a plastic handle from a bag of ice and pressed it solidly against the cut. It was freezing, but Dom leaned into it. It was an Enswell – an eye iron – and its function was to reduce the swelling and compress the burst blood vessels, encouraging them to constrict. If they couldn't stop the bleeding, he couldn't fight on. Not even Eddie the gym owner could argue that with this many semi-professional coaches in the room. They may be willing to turn a blind eye to the betting going on, but some rules were in place for reasons that couldn't be ignored.

In the other corner Vinco was almost ready to go, refreshed by a drink of water, some words of praise, advice and a quick re-wrapping of his hands.

"Alright – grit your teeth, kid. You know the drill," Billy said and without further warning, pulled away the cool, comforting metal and replaced it with a cotton swab sodden in something of his own making. The stuff stunk like mouthwash and stung like a bitch, but whatever was in it worked wonders when it came to stopping blood.

Dom pushed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, flaring his nostrils in an effort to stop his eyes from watering from the smarting.

"Thirty seconds, fighters," the referee shouted.

Billy's face was stern with concentration as he unscrewed a tub one-handed, pulled the swab away and slathered the cut with another home-made salve.

"He's alright – yeah?" Paul asked.

Dom blinked, sliding the heel of one palm over the laceration again to clear the excess liniment. Surely Paul he wasn't bothered about him getting hurt… was he?

"Bill – come on! He can carry on, right?" Paul demanded.

"Paul…" Billy said, with a grimace.

"Do you know how much money people have got riding on this fight? Do you know how much money I have riding on this fight?! If we forfeit we lose, Billy. Just do your fucking job and get him back in the ring!"

Ah, that made more sense.

Well, it wasn't Dom's fault if the idiot had put a bet on him against the regional champion when he'd already fought against someone half again his size. Most likely it was the drink that had done that. Paul was always blowing cash on stupid odds. Dogs, horses… cage-fights. Didn't make a difference when he'd had a few tinnies.

Looked like he'd sobered up pretty well just now, though…

"Fine," Billy relented, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. He can fight on. But he's concussed, Paul. You know what that means. If I get found out letting him continue... we're all in the shit."

"Fuck being concussed – you're fine, aren't you, son?"

Dom nodded steadily, despite the hated term, focussing himself. It was just a concussion. He could deal with that.

Billy shook his head and backed away. He clearly didn't agree with it, but he wasn't about to argue with Paul.

"So what are you waiting for?" Paul shouted at Dom. "Get back in there and fecking-well work hard. Rent's due and you don't want me to tell your mother we can't make it because you fucked up, do you?"

It was an empty threat. If Theresa found out Paul was making money off her son fighting, there would be an argument for sure. And as much as Paul threw his weight around, he didn't purposefully seek out confrontations with the woman he supposedly loved. No, he saved that mostly for her son.

Dom shook his head wordlessly, still repaying his oxygen debt. What was wrong with him? Normally he had the recovery rate of a seasoned Olympian. He felt almost drugged - and he wouldn't put it past Paul to do such a thing if he was supposed to be losing, but quite clearly he was supposed to win this one. He could only think that the bout of hypothermia a few days ago must have taken its toll more than he had originally realised. He motioned for a drink and for once his request was answered, albeit grudgingly. He gulped down a few mouthfuls, swilling the last one around his gumshield and spitting it onto the floor. His saliva tasted of blood, but whether it was from his mouth or overspill from his head he was yet to determine. What he was fairly certain of - and his grandmother would certainly clip him around the ear if he was wrong - was that the water was clean. Untampered with. He only felt so rough because of the treatment he'd been putting his body through recently.

Urgh. This is what it must feel like to be average, he realised. He didn't like it.

He spat again, holding out the half-empty bottle to indicate he'd finished with it.

"Now go fucking show this crowd what I put you in the ring for. If you make me look a fool…" Paul shook his head, leaving the statement hanging as he snatched the drink away from him and slamming the cage hatch. "Go on. Fight!"

Dom turned away, facing his opponent for the final round. If he didn't pull off a good-enough performance in the next five minutes, Vinco would win on points. Dom was used to winning on holds, tap-outs and knock-out blows. He'd have to be crafty to get enough hits in to even the scoreboard.

He rotated his wrists, bouncing on his feet and shaking his arms out before pulling his hands up to protect his face. But he couldn't wait for Vinco to bring the fight to him. After the last round's performance, the older boy could spend the whole round blocking and still win.

The referee held up his arms. Dom took a long, deep breath through his nose. When he opened his eyes, his gaze mimicked that of his ancestors when they too had been faced with seemingly insurmountable odds and a reason to fight. Composed. Impassive. Resolute.

"Fight!"

Drawing on energy he barely ever had to remember he had left beyond his usual reserves, Dom flew forward the moment the word ended, backing Vinco into a corner. The other fighter fought back, kicking and punching, aiming his jabs specifically at Dom's injured left arm. The young Butler dropped that side to protect it, fighting forwards on his right foot, ducking and diving. He had three minutes. The points were close, but Vinco was earning as many as he could claw back.

What happened next was based far more on instinct than training.

Vinco stepped in with a right-footed kick to the left side. Dom wasn't quite quick enough to back off, the bare heel of his opponent more than grazing his ribcage. Vinco brought his foot down as intended, ready to land a follow-up punch from the same side – his signature move with no option for his rival to counter it... Or at least he thought, for he was not expecting Dom to throw his full weight into a devastatingly forceful hook off his injured arm.

The punch was so hard Dom's damaged elbow buckled and he followed with his shoulder, leaping over his opponent's falling body. He tried to land the flip on his hands, but his elbow couldn't take the impact and instead he was forced to push off one palm, flicking onto to his feet and leaping around in one fluid motion, dizzyingly disorientated and certain he was about to get caught on the back of the head by a high-kick or something equally as unpleasant.

But the crowd was roaring, half in dismay, half in triumph.

Dom was confused. He usually performed such feats of gymnastics without excessive reaction from the crowd. After all, most of them who had seen him fight before would be surprised they hadn't seen something of the likes yet tonight already. One time, he had run up the cage fencing and flipped over backwards onto his opponent in something more akin to a staged wrestling move than a cage-fight…

But then he noticed.

Vinco was still down.

"10… 9… 8…" the crowd roared, many of them yelling at Dom to step in and finish the job. But there was no honour in kicking a man when he was down, even if it was legal in cage-fighting.

"…7…6…5…"

Dom kept his guard up, panting heavily. He should dive in for a pin - the other boy would be up any second, he was sure of it. But he stayed back, taking full advantage of the reprise in case it was very short. The seconds ticked by…

"…4…3…2…"

The ref stepped forward, kneeling and flipping Vinco over onto his back.

The sixteen-year-old didn't move. For a second Dom felt his stomach drop. What if he had hit the boy harder than he thought?

Vinco's limbs lolled uselessly and his eyes were rolled back in his head, the whites showing through flickering eyelids.

"…1 – Knockout!"

The ref leapt up, grasping Dom's arm – the sore one, not that it mattered anymore – and throwing it to the sky.

Dom turned his head, still trying to keep Vinco in view. Why wasn't he up yet? Why wasn't he moving…

"Ladies and gentlemen, you have your winner!" Eddie was whooping into the mic. "What did I tell you people? Never judge a book by its cover - or its record. The winner, by a knock-out blow... I give you… our home-grown hero, Flex!"

Dom didn't feel like a hero. Billy had already entered the cage by now. He looked serious and concerned. The fight doctor dropped to his knees, thumbing Vinco's eyelids and patting his face.

Dom felt sick, his pulse pounding in his ears.

He hadn't meant to hit him that hard…

He hadn't meant to…

He hadn't...

But then, suddenly;

"Aaand there we are, wakey-wakey, Vinco – nice to have you back, boy – you just got Fuh-fuh-flexed! How do you feel?" Eddie shouted, the crowd laughing and booing raucously.

Dom twisted around to see for himself and felt relief flooding through his limbs when he saw that the other boy was stirring, probably with no idea why he was flat on his back in the middle of a cage. Or at least he wouldn't for a few more seconds until his memory rebooted or Eddie's loud mocking sunk it.

"That's two winning streaks broken in one evening by our very own junior champ-beater!" Eddie informed the room. "Maybe we should give him a new nickname – how's Broken Record sound for you, Flex?"

Dom managed to shake his head as he was dragged out of a second cage door which did not lead to the changing rooms. Eddie laughed off something about him preferring the sound of 'Flex' anyway. People were clawing at him like a hoard of zombies and the fight staff were forced to clear a path ahead of him up to the stage where the other winners were already seated. Suddenly Paul was in his face, snaking an arm over his shoulders and drawing their heads together with a roar of triumph, grinning like a maniac.

"I knew you had it in you, you little shite! Just wanted to give us a show, eh?" he bellowed, clapping him on the shoulder heavily.

Dom hated that Paul was always over-friendly when he'd won him money.

"We're rich, son! We're fucking rich!"

But not as much as he hated Paul calling him 'son'.

Dom had no idea how much money he'd just earned the man, but by the way Paul was acting, he imagined it was a lot. There was the silver lining, at least. Maybe his mother would get some nice trinket or other she'd have to pretend she adored. Or else, less likely but more usefully, she wouldn't have to worry about the rent on the flat for a few months...

"Alright, move back, move back, would ya? – Let the kid breathe!" Paul bellowed over the deafening roars and stomping of the appreciative mob.

Dom couldn't see anything beyond the lights glaring in his face. His elbow was throbbing, his head was banging, the floor was swaying and to top it off he still felt like he was going to puke. He viscously hoped Paul got the spray-back from it if he did...

One of the other winners from the open-age bracket grabbed his hand to shake it forcibly, congratulating him loudly.

"I ain't never seen fighting like that before! Never!" he told him, shaking his head. "Who else trains you, kid?"

"It's all me," Paul said self-importantly, leaning in to catch every word of praise as though it was his own to receive. "You should know that, Brickie."

Dom almost clocked him one right then and there in front of everyone. The pompous prick was claiming the credit not only for his hard work, but for the many, many years his uncle and grandfather had been training him and the three hard years he had spent at The Academy honing his skills.

"Aye but I thought… Well – good job, Paul. And I mean, Jay-sus H Christ, kid, I ain't looking forward to you joining my age-group," the man laughed, still not releasing his tight grip on his hand after the handshake. Dom recognised him. His cage name was 'The Bricklayer' – a man Dom had never had a reason to dislike and who had once bought him an energy bar from the vending machine when Paul had brought him straight from school to train and neglected to bring him any food. He'd even sparred with him before. Although of course he'd had to fake being merely above average for his age-group rather than above average in general. The man locked eyes with him and – so fast Dom couldn't be sure if it was a trick of the revolving lights – winked, clapping both hands together over Dom's and curling his fingers for him.

Dom kept his hand clenched, for suddenly transferred into it was a small, flat, flexible object with one edge harder than the other. He frowned, trying to work out what it was. He couldn't risk opening his hand to look at it, so he took the offered towel with his other and draped it over his neck. When the adrenalin in his system had settled somewhat, he thought to check the cage again for Vinco – but he was gone, most likely shepherded off for treatment by Billy. Dom hoped he'd be OK. He had never seriously injured someone who wasn't fully aware of the risks of taking him on before now. Fellow Blue Diamond trainees didn't count. He was already a topic of Academy gossip for knocking out a student two Tiers his senior who had thought it would be a feather in his cap to 'teach the cocky little Butler bastard a lesson'. What the older boy had failed to recognise, was that Dom only appeared arrogant because he rightfully could be without it ending in his humiliation at the hands of another.

The gathering of the winners on the stage was mostly for the photo that would be added to the gallery Eddie kept of all the winners of the New Year tournament from the past thirty years or so. It wouldn't be taken until the result of the final fight – the one which many men had boisterously offered their names up for and were now laughing far more nervously than they were before.

"Alright, as the tradition goes," Eddie said, hefting a box to the middle of the stage. "The youngest and oldest – sorry to say it Brickie, old boy – " – the thirty-eight year old fighter who had shook Dom's hand made a faux-swing at the commentator who ducked dramatically – " – winners of tonight, pull the names. So here we go, I'd say age before beauty, but with the faces on the pair of you two it's hard to judge…"

The crowd guffawed.

"Let's go with youngest first…"

The lid of the box was opened and Eddie offered it out to him. Dom took his closed fist, plunging it into the folded papers.

"Rustle around, lad, rustle around!" he instructed. "That's it – like you're sticking your hand up a lady's skir… t'ah-ha-ha, no, no – my bad, you're too young for that yet, Flexy-boy!"

He planted a hand on his skull and jiggled it as though scruffing up his short hair fondly. The crowd roared with laughter again and Eddie made a great show of looking disgusted at the blood-stopping slime he'd just transferred to his hand, wiping it down Dom's back theatrically.

The boy wasn't interested in the clowning around. He clenched his fist around what he had quite suddenly realised was a name slip. He daren't look back at Brickie, but he could feel his eyes on him. If this was a trick… Dom pulled out his hand and opened it. Cupped in his palm was a triangular slip of folded paper. He almost smiled. His uncle folded crisp packets like that. On the rare occasion that he indulged in such an unhealthy snack, of course.

"OK, first up…" Eddie said, snatching the slip and unfolding it quickly. "Mick Kendrew. Do we have a Mick Kendrew in the audience? Give us a wave, Mickey-boy!"

A large man in a cap raised his hand in acknowledgement.

"Excellent! Get yourself to the dressing room sir and we'll get you fitted with some kit – Bejaysus, if we've got shorts big enough for you!" he added with a chuckle as the crowd cleared to let him through.

Dom squinted out across the crowd, but the lights in his face meant he couldn't see much beyond milling shadows and glints of pint glasses.

"Alright – your turn Brick-meister," said Eddie, holding out the wooden box again.

Brickie made a great show of rubbing his hands together before he plunged a closed fist into the box as though punching it and pulled out a scrunched slip of paper.

"And facing the big feller over there is…"

Eddie paused, almost as though he was reluctant to read out the name on the slip.

"… our very own..."

Dom's subconscious guessed why that was before the rest of his rattled brain could catch up. He stared at Eddie, as fixated as the rest of the room.

"Paul Grant."


Ahh bit of a cliffy for ya!

So. Pa Butler's plan of using Mick Kendrew to carry out a favour is coming together nicely, it would seem. But is it going to work or is Paul going to weasel his way out of it or what?

I'd say 'answers on a postcard!', but that'd take weeks to get all the replies in and I'm thinking you'll all be wanting the next chapter quicker than that, am I right?

I was glad to hear that people could 'see' the fight in front of them in the last chapter, but I feel like some of this one's fight-scene got a little messy and hard to follow at times. So I hope you all got the gist of it and you're still enjoying the fic :)

Wolfy
ooo
O

06/02/16