Heart of a Champion: 2

John flashed open his eyes. Lying on the bed in a restful state, there were a million things that could have startled him awake. Bad dreams being one of them. His present circumstances, not including past traumas or unresolved issues, could have concocted a tonic of nightmares worthy of insanity. But he had tried that once, and didn't care for it. No, what thrust him brusquely into consciousness wasn't terrifying, disturbing, or horrific imaginations but something plainly physical. He was warm. And without a blanket, that could only mean one thing.

John wasn't sleeping alone.

Something warm pressed against his back. A distinct weight sagged the old mattress stuffing. Then, there was movement. Slow shallow breathing indicated that this guest was still oblivious to John's consciousness. All of which was curious considering John went to bed alone. Or at least, that's what he remembered. Moving risked waking the still sleeping subject but John couldn't exactly let this mystery go unsolved forever. He slowly looked over his shoulder. Considering the size of his frame, it didn't help much. He couldn't see anything. John twisted even further and lifted an elbow. Still, nothing. It was time to commit to the cause. John rolled over, making sure to stay in contact with the warm visitor least the cool departure of body heat cause his company an uncomfortable chill and even more uncomfortable arousal.

John blinked to make sure he wasn't dreaming. There on the bed coiled next to him, was an ekans. There had to be some kind of logical explanation. Saul would never sleep next to a human without unwilling desperation. John looked over to the nest in the corner of the room. The blanket was still there. No uncomfortable lumps as far as he could see but the lamp was off. Had it blown out in the middle of the night? If so, it was possible Saul was just satisfying an instinctual need to stay warm. Although, John wouldn't put it past the snake to freeze to death just to spite someone. Onyx had testified to a similar fact regarding his evolution.

John looked down at Saul again. His scales had thickened since they first met. They weren't as shinny and glossy as before but the color had truly started to show. Most people didn't realize that a snake's best flashing iridescence came from scratching its scales across dirt and rocks. The minute grooves had a tendency to catch and hold minerals while exposing those held within, causing the scales to flash in a rainbow of colors when the light stroked them just right. Hand buffering could do the same but the color was never as sharp and brilliant as natural polish.

Just a few days of sliding around on the floor and there was already a noticeable difference. Had Onyx ever let Saul out of his pokeball? John slowly reached out and laid a hand on the purple coil closest to him. He stroked the scales with just enough weight to flatten his hand. The skin pulled in a tickle. John smiled. It was cold in the underground, especially for snakes. Snuggling was a necessary act of survival.

Of course.

It would have been nice to enjoy the moment a little longer, but John knew better than to catch Saul red handed offering emotional intimacy. The trainer might just catch another fang instead. It took an extensive bit of maneuvering to make it around the snake without disturbing him since the bed was up against the wall, but at John's longitude, it didn't take long. He got out of bed and made sure to stuff the pillow next to Saul in his absence. Wouldn't want him to sag in the depression and roll out of a pleasant dream, if such things existed in a place like this.

John stood beside the bed. Like every morning, there was no sense changing clothes because the set of warm ups he currently wore were the only ones he had. Breakfast would wait until noon and retaining his water was now an art. Solitary confinement gave little room for entertainment, so John started his day like he always did.

With meditation.

It was probably the only thing that kept him sane in this world. That, and his pokemon. John sat down on the floor, got into position, and closed his eyes. He focused on his party in his mind, reaching out for Lularoo, the rapidash, to see if his spirit could truly breach space and time. He imagined flame and watched it dance and wave in wind. But his thoughts drifted to something more colorful, wild, and expansive. Something distant yet very close . . .

Sometime later, probably when the last of John's body heat dissipated from the bed, Saul shifted on the mattress. He uncoiled with a rustle of the sheet and lowered his head onto the floor with a flick of his tongue. He paused a moment, starring into John's back to make sure he wouldn't get caught treading the line of affection, and continued as if he just now remembered the trainer was there. John spared him the embarrassment of watching. He did wink open an eye, however, when the end of the snake's tail thumped on the floor at the end of the procession. Back to sleep for the pokemon, and back to navigating the web of reflection for the trainer.

Meditation had a way of screwing with time. John had come to appreciate the irony of that fact, but even he recognized that his pickup time for training was later than usual. Very late now that he focused in on it. The darkness shifted with his concentration, shaping itself into his surroundings. Something was coming. Heavy and purposeful footsteps reverberated down the corridor. John felt them, then heard them, before they even hit the door. He opened his eyes seconds before the handle turned. To his surprise, it wasn't Vermillion but Onyx's first lieutenant, Vaughn, who opened the door. And just like the soldier's boss, John could never read more from his expression than a harsh apathetic expectation of inferiority for whoever fell prostrate at the end of his gaze.

"Pack it up," he ordered with a glance at Saul.

John was tempted to ask where the usual messenger was but he was sure Vermillion would have somehow found out about the teasing comment and reprimanded him with a scratch across the face. The fact that the lieutenant wielded an electrified baton, pokebelt, and a fully loaded pistol, also convinced him to keep a tight lip. There was a chance the lieutenant was as good a shot as his boss but John doubted it. Instead of issuing a warning over the shoulder, Lieutenant Vaughn might just miss and shoot a hole straight through his head.

"Come with me," he ordered again.

Brisk and to the point, as usual.

John looked at Saul. The snake flicked his tongue, unwilling to pull his eyes off of the lieutenant for even a moment. Vaughn looked at him again. A heavy rattle droned to life. John ended it with a withdrawal. He snapped Saul in place and followed the lieutenant out of the room. They made their way through the two coded access doors and back into the complex. John led the way with Vaughn in the rear. The lieutenant's presence felt lighter than before, probably because John had memorized the way to all of his usual stops, but as the trainer turned for the training room, Vaughn quickly barked out a reprimand.

"Not today," he said. "Your next match is tonight."

"Back to back battles?" John asked with a glance over his shoulder. No training day in between?

The lieutenant put a hand to his collapsible baton. "Keep moving."

John obediently turned away and continued down the corridor. Another growl indicated they were headed for the research lab. No training and apparently no breakfast or shower either. The usual lightness of John's expression hardened slightly. The powers that be had pushed the match a day ahead of schedule. Was it because he was starting to show promise or were they pressed for time? Or more likely, his little declaration yesterday had scared them back into caution. And for good reason. John meant every word of it.

"Hot damn, you're still alive?" the clinic doctor asked as the pair walked into the lab.

"For the time being," John replied.

Vaughn quickly cut in front of him. "Full work up. No boosters," he ordered.

The doctor nodded and flicked the switch to bring the healing machine to life. He then walked into a back room and came out carrying a tray of vials. He set it down in front of John.

"Let's get started, shall we?" he said while grabbing two vials and a syringe.

Lieutenant Vaughn grabbed the doctor's hand. "Did you not hear a word I just said?" he coldly hissed. It was the first time John had ever heard more in the Lieutenant's voice than fixed disdain. The doctor's eyes widened. They stayed that way when he looked at John, packed up the tray, and left the room without another word. Vaughn flicked his eyes back at John. They didn't linger as the lieutenant moved for the door.

"Stay here," he ordered. "Wardrobe will have you when treatment is finished."

No booster shots and straight to wardrobe? Onyx sure had him on the fast track to somewhere. John was starting to get the impression that Vermillion hadn't been left behind, but took off in the other direction. It was a sour thought, one John didn't have the right taste buds for, but it wasn't a surprise. As the Polisher always preached, some things were inevitable. It was a miracle she stuck with him as long as she did. John was grateful for every minute of it. Lieutenant Vaughn walked out of the door and motioned behind him. Two grunts came into the room. They had to be more of Onyx's crew because they carried rifles across their chests. They were the only syndicate that still clung to the classic ideals. None of the other Jewel's respected such out dated methods of persuasion. Bullets and brass casings would be John's first meal of the day should he decide to pull another stunt like last night.

At least, the Black Jewel had finally taken him seriously.

The doctor returned, keeping his silence even while motioning for John's pokebelt. John removed it and handed it over. With the black knight gone and only two pawns remaining, the doctor loosened his tongue a little, mostly out of necessity for his work than conversation.

"Any casualties?" he asked with a glance down the lineup. John would have been offended if it wasn't the first question asked at the start of every clinical visit. Remembering last night's battle kept his answer to a brisk "No." The doctor, now demoted to researcher, nodded and moved over to the healing machine. He removed the pokeballs, inserted preliminary restoration discs, and set them into the machine. One lonely classic ball remained on the belt while the others colored the metal of the rack. No sense healing an unoccupied ball.

The doctor then glanced at the door and the guards on either side of it. Clad in full raiding gear, the grunts expected nothing less than a mutiny. They watched John with hungry eyes.

"For Christ's sake, he's not going to do anything without his pokemon," the doctor yelled with a motion to the Blood Ace sitting quietly on the stool. The guards didn't move but they didn't relax either. John was sure they would have shot the doctor too if they felt it necessary. But aggravating his escorts now with wisecracks would only lead to a breaking point. A line had been crossed last night, if only with a single statement, and there was no taking it back. John didn't plan to anyway. In fact, he probably should have said it sooner, but there was no point dwelling on the past. The future was all that mattered.

And right now, getting his pokemon ready for battle was more important than freedom.

A full workup in the healing machine generally took about an hour. The doctor normally had it running while performing John's usual health diagnostic, but without the extra work, there was nothing to do but wait. John hovered over monitors and equipment, watching blips and beeps in correspondence to various tests and programs. The doctor didn't seem to mind. Which, apparently, wasn't the usual routine because the guards couldn't stop wagging their fingers across the rifle's safety with every shift in position. John would have enjoyed the nervous fidgeting if he wasn't so focused on the progress of his pokemon.

Charles took the longest to treat. Considering the beating he took yesterday, some wouldn't have bothered with the machine at all and replaced him with a fresher healthier pokemon. But then again, no one knew the linoone as well as John. Long, lean, and hardy, the rushing pokemon may not have ever won a real battle, but he had never given up on one either. John preferred more traditional means of healing but given his current standings, he appreciated the swiftness of restores and healing machines.

But even that wasn't fast enough for the grunts. They badgered the doctor to hurry up after fifteen minutes of waiting and started ushering John out of the door before the pokeballs were even in his hands. Waiting for someone else's pokemon to heal wasn't nearly as amusing as playing security in the Houses on a match night. But despite the doctor's obligation to satisfy the sponsor's wishes, this was his clinic, dark and grungy as it may be, and he wasn't about to let a patient go without his final approval.

The doctor stopped John as the party restoration finished. Both grunts stepped forward, but one gnarled glare from the doctor with a syringe in hand waylaid the advance. John obediently held out an arm. The needle wasn't as steady as usual, and a little blood pooled at the injection site, but the drugs went in smoothly. The ease to which the B.A. suddenly held himself indicated that the doctor had been generous. John had a feeling that the researcher wanted to say something. During previous visits they may not have chatted easily, but they had exchanged more than the usual grunt and scoff of other patients. Today, there was silence. They looked at one another but the doctor's gaze was fleeting. He turned away, paused as if he forgot something, and continued towards the machinery.

"Let's go. We're running late," the guards pressed.

They stepped forward, coming up beside John, but not even their intimidating surge was enough to pressure the trainer an inch. John carefully snapped his pokebelt around his waist, and only when it was secure, did he turn and follow them out of the clinic. He never heard what it was that ailed the doctor, but then again, nothing had been the same since yesterday. Maybe it was something in the air, or some unforeseen force, pressuring the world and all the living things in it in different ways. Fate had a funny way of working like that.

Like throwing someone off a cliff through space and time.

After tiring out their trigger fingers in the clinic, the grunts felt the need to establish their dominance during the transition. They kept John in a pincer as they walked. One in the front. One in the back. John could look over their heads either way. He felt taller for some reason, or maybe he had finally acknowledged his height and weight knowing that one day, sometime soon, he might need to use it.

The dresser was waiting for them, looking somewhat panicked and antsy as if she wished they had arrived hours ago. John didn't see a real reason why. From what he gathered, there wasn't much to this match's outfit. If it could even be called an outfit: One shortened black shendyt, true to ancient culture, covered his waist and ended at the knee. It was folded in such a way that a gold and silver embellishment draped down the front. There was hardly need for alarm considering he could slip it on in two seconds.

It was when the dresser stood in front of him, hands full of a bandage like tape and an expression of dire confusion, that John understood her dilemma. She was supposed to bandage him head to foot. Palms, forearms, biceps, chest, calves, and ankles were all supposed to bear the sandy stereotype of his name, and she had no idea how to do it without making him look like a bad Christmas present. After the first wrapping and subsequent loss of circulation to his foot, John insisted he take over. It was his pride to demonstrate his wrapping technique. Not to mention it felt good to have the security of his heritage around him once more. There were no special oils, perfumes, or magical touches of the Cork City gym, but the sensation was still the same.

If felt good to have a piece of home again.

In a cage, across time, or as a slave to another's will, this bandaging technique had survived, and so would John. He would carry that determination all the way to the gates of hell. And so he did . . .

"Give it up."

John stood before Lieutenant Vaughn at the backstage entrance of the Cage. Having rendezvoused once more, the two looked at one another in mutual hatred. Vaughn held out his hand, waiting for John's pokebelt to fill it. It was a motion that rewound time just as easily as Celebi's feathered trick. Just like John's debut in the Cage before colliding with the B.A. Mammoth, there was a choice. To follow or rebel against the demands of his captors. The open palm extended to him waited for his pokebelt . . . his life. This time, would he so willingly hand it over? There were no velvety hips or black poison coated nails to ask for it today. John looked around the stage, and still, found no puckered lips, black leather, or luscious red curls to even find interest in the match. He frowned.

It looked like Vermillion wasn't coming after all.

John looked back at the lieutenant. He had made it painstakingly clear during his kidnapping that he would never leave his pokemon in the hands of a stranger, especially after nearly losing them, ever again. Lieutenant Vaughn removed the pistol from his shoulder holster and held it at his side. John unclenched his fists. Being dead didn't help his pokemon. Now wasn't the time, nor the place for rebellion. It was time to honor his pledge and become Cage Champion. The Ace unclipped his pokebelt and passed it over.

Lieutenant Vaughn holstered the pistol and popped off Lopo's ball. He enlarged it, pressed the release, and minimized it again, hooking it back into place before the materialization finished. John curled his fingers into another white knuckle. Demanding his pokemon was one thing, releasing them, another. Fuming rage pulled the B.A.'s shoulders back. Feeling the energy in his own, Lopo appeared, head low and tail still. His black eyes flashed at the Lieutenant. The two heavily armored guards quickly stepped up behind them, rifles shifting in their hands.

John turned half a cheek at one of them. This triangle was far more treacherous than anything the sea could muster but it wasn't anything he hadn't experienced before. John relaxed lightly, spurring Lopo's horns up from the ground. A broadcast shouted over the intercom, introducing Pharaoh onto the stage. Lieutenant Vaughn glanced down the tunnel to the yellowish glow of the Cage then back at John.

"Get moving," he commanded.

The pair didn't need a prompt. They were already mid stride by the time Lieutenant Vaughn punctuated the order. Crewmen working House operations paused as John and Lopo passed by. They hoped to catch a glimpse of the man rumor had claimed was truly blessed by the divine. There was no other explanation to his success and survival in the Cage. The crowd was already in an uproar when the pair appeared on the walkway. Spotlights turned on them. John and Lopo came to a rehearsed stop. No tottering steps, undead moans, or muffled cries teased the crowd with call sign dramatics. There was only Pharaoh, bandaged from the scars of war, and his god of the underworld, Anubis, waiting to escort their next opponent into the afterlife. Or at least, that's what the announcer proclaimed through the loud speakers. Whistles and shouts split through the rumbling cheers. They heightened the fever of the crowd, causing them to wave and undulate in an incoherent mass of ecstasy.

The Cage was waiting.

John looked down at Lopo. The houndoom seemed unfazed by it all. He kept his head steady. His tail flicked slightly here and there, eyes distant from the metal dome and its vultures but ever aware of their presence. Hearty meals five times a day combined with regular training had smoothed out his sides. The rough edges to his armor had polished themselves to a shine. His horns seemed weightless, his body unburdened. Cool, calm, and as quick as a shadow in the night, this was the houndoom John remembered.

This was his friend. His battling partner.

John ran his hand down Lopo's neck. The fur ran smoother than silk under his fingers. Lopo turned his head up at the trainer in a sniff of recognition but quickly dropped it again with an adjustment of his paw. There was no need to linger. The canine was exactly where he was supposed to be. Heat slowly radiated from his coat. It was deep and heavy like the warm skin of a volcano. John didn't need jumpy staff, a shift in routine, or a psychic premonition to know that this battle would be different. Onyx had something up her sleeve.

But he would face it.

Lopo sneezed out a wash of cinders like the scrape of a sharpened hoof.

They would face it. Together.

Horns first.

Literally.

Lopo brushed open the Cage door with a high tilt of his horns. John walked in after him, ducking slightly as if he had grown another two feet and couldn't fit through the door. They were the first in, and apparently, first in popularity because as their opponent walked in from the opposite side of the Cage, a low booing moan rattled the metal woven dome. Like John, the B.A. entered with his chosen pokemon already released. A banette floated to the forefront with a twist of its head, pulling its zippered mouth into a grin. It was the only joyous expression in the Cage.

John and Lopo had their reasons, but even the marionette pokemon's trainer didn't seem enthralled to be in the race for Cage Champion. Was he forced into gladiator like survival as well? John doubted it considering this B.A. was unlike anything he had ever faced before. There was no flare whatsoever. Not even an outfit. No gimmicks or quirks to give himself a name.

John glanced up through the Cage to the score board and it was no wonder he had such a hard time trying to find one. The B.A.'s call sign was "66". And judging from the hopeless headshakes and mutters of disappointment that started running through the crowd at his appearance, the match was no longer as enthralling as anticipated. It had been thrown, the victor decided. John had experienced this sensation several times before. Now, he recognized it, but to what end? Was this match supposed to be a staged blow out to raise his name or another crude underestimation of his skill? The latter seemed unlikely. Kronos had poured everything he had into the match and lost. But then again, why would Onyx bolster the reputation of a man she wanted dead?

John watched as several people flocked to the bookies. The tile cards spun with rapid fire bets. They eventually clacked to a stop: One to Ten. Those were the odds that John would win. Several spectators left the House in a huff. Others stepped back into the sidelines as if curious to watch the match despite knowing the outcome. One or two zealots even cursed and threw bottles at the nameless B.A. They shattered against the dome in a spray of glass. One or two security personnel quickly apprehended the rioters. 66 merely looked at them and adjusted the pokeball in his hand. He needn't be bothered with the vermin. It wasn't his job to entertain.

John suddenly understood what had just transpired in the Cage House. The crowd wasn't happy because they were no longer in for a show, and if there wasn't a show, there wasn't a real battle about to take place in the Cage. 66 wasn't here to fight. He was here to kill.

John closed his eyes in a slow and steady inhale exhale combination.

66 wasn't a competitor for Cage Champion. He was a Polisher: contract killer, kin to Vermillion, only the ugly third cousin. Together, with his six pokemon, he wrote the devil's code. Murder. So this was it then? Onyx was determined to set Pharaoh in his tomb once and for all. John opened his eyes and looked at his bandaged hand. The wrappings were the first step to his looming demise and subsequent mummification. It seemed the Royal Jewel did indeed posse a sense of humor. Little did she know that these bandages served as so much more. Still, John's hand shook lightly.

Sensei always said nerves could be one of the sharpest weapon a fighter could possess. They sheared off over confidence and kept the ego nice and lean, perfect for slicing away at your opponent's weaknesses. John closed his hand into a fist to steady it. Tonight's match: the fighter versus the killer. It was a homage to Hell Raiser's legacy if John every saw one. But unlike his baptism into this bloody circuit, it was Pharaoh's turn to push back.

The traces of a smile tugged at John's lips.

Vermillion had tried to warn him of what was coming. He listened but didn't truly understand. Not completely. Facing death and fighting against it was a primal thing. But then again, he could still make a run for it. The Cage door was still open. They could turn and bolt out of those doors but that wasn't in John's nature, even if he could somehow scale the odds clacking against him. He always thought of himself as more of a jumper. John chuckled silently. Jumping was exactly what got him into this mess in the first place. But it wasn't the irony that made him smile. It was the fact that Vermillion had tried to warn him at all.

It seemed the Polisher wasn't as cold and uncaring as she thought she was.