Revelation, a fight club fanfic

Forget what you know

Lose all your preconceptions

This is not an exit

The smell of blood clouded the air, voices seemed numbed and distant as they roared and cheered, feet thudding on the concrete, shaking the ground in a tumult of passion. Another blow landed, flashing sparks behind the eyes.

"Had enough?"

"No…"

Wait, stop, let's go back a bit.

Mark looked up into the mirror and stared himself in the face.

"Are you sure?" he said to his reflection. He couldn't deny the fact that fear was knotting his stomach. He'd tried punching himself in the face the other day, but didn't reckon it was anywhere near hard enough.

He looked down at his chest, he looked at himself side on in the mirror and checked again. His vest lay as flat as it was going to. His binder was tight, but he could still just about breath. His reflection was staring at him again.

"You'll probably get killed you know." It said as a parting shot, but he was already leaving.

Finding the bar was easy, he'd driven past it nearly every day for a fortnight, pondering his next move. He'd heard from a friend who knew a guy who'd met a guy who'd re-set the nose of a guy who knew this club. This wasn't boy scouts, this wasn't little leagues, this was a fight club.

Illegal, dangerous and down right stupid. But there was something in his gut that relentlessly told him to do it. Some primal urge to join a pack and battle for supremacy, the urge for a band of brothers, a kinship like no other.

Tonight he decided he would fulfil his wishes, silence the plaintive voice demanding action. And if he died trying, at least he would have his answers.

The steps down to the basement were steep, it crossed Mark's mind that it would be humiliating to tumble down them, break his neck before he'd even seen the place for himself.

Guys were standing around, taking off their shoes, ties, belts, watches and wedding rings, then they started stripping off their shirts.

Mark's stomach somersaulted and he turned to leave.

"Hey newbie, going somewhere?" said another fighter, heading down the stairs towards him.

"No…" Mark lied, turning back and walking towards the circle of shirtless fighters.

A man stepped out in front of them and everyone fell silent, he was of average height, didn't seem overly well built, dark hair. Mark wouldn't have looked at him twice in the street, but here he was, commanding the respect of all these men, some of whom were twice his size.

"I look around….see a lot of new faces." He said, a few people laughed, and he yelled at them to shut up. He seemed furious, like a drill sergeant.

Mark edged his way to the back, he was beginning to think it was a bad idea.

"What if they ask me to take my shirt off?" he thought anxiously. He didn't know how he could explain the binder, and what if they made him take it off, could he convince them that his breasts were a genetic abnormality. He mused that they truly were in a way, but he doubted they'd understand. This seemed like the kind of place that didn't accept women, in any way, shape or form.

He looked up at the man in the centre of the room, he was still talking. Mark could have kicked himself for not listening; he might have missed something important.

"Only two guys to a fight. Fifth rule, one fight at a time. Sixth rule, no shirts, no shoes."

"Oh crap…" Mark gulped "I've got to get out of here."

"Seventh rule, fights will go on as long as they have to."

"Maybe I could just watch or…"

"Eighth rule, if this is your first night at fight club, you have to fight."

"Oh shit."

"Hey newbie." The guy standing behind Mark was the same guy he'd met on the stairs.

"Er…hey." Mark said, focusing on keeping a deeper voice.

"How 'bout me and you call the first one?"

"Gee…er…" Mark winced; the guy was about two feet taller than him.

"You, new kid." Someone else said he turned round; the dark haired man who'd been speaking earlier was standing in the centre. "You fight blondie, no shirt no shoes."

"I can take my shoes off." Mark said

"What?" the man said, moving closer, his tone was hostile.

"Er…I said…I can take my shoes off. But...I've got a skin condition." Mark faltered, the man's eyes were drilling through his head with their unblinking ferocity, but then suddenly they weren't.

"Just let him fight Tyler." The man said, his eyes seemed less fierce now, more sad or weary. Mark was momentarily confused, but the guy was already walking away.

He walked back into the crowd and Mark stepped out, leaving his shoes behind. His heart was pounding, a thudding samba that he was certain everyone must be able to hear.

A young man stepped out to challenge him, a blonde haired guy of around the same age. Slightly taller. Mark was used to it, most guys were taller than him.

The blonde youth raised his fists and circled him, Mark did the same, but the fear must have been shining out of his face.

Suddenly before Mark realized what was happening, the blonde guy jabbed a fist forward, it connected with Mark's jaw and sent his head snapping back violently.

"Ahrkk." Mark gasped, his eyes starting to water. Another fist slammed into him, this time in his stomach and he double over. Another fist assailed him.

"Say stop you idiot, say stop!" the voice in his head begged him as another blow struck. Mark held his arms in front of his face and lashed out with a foot, catching the blonde lad on the shin. Blondie leapt backwards scarcely registering it, his adrenaline surging. Finally Mark's adrenaline arrived and his pain began to ebb to the background slightly.

He flung a fist in; the blonde guy slammed it to one side. Screaming pain shot up Mark's arm and he knew he'd been very close to breaking the bone.

Mark roared and slammed into him sending them both tumbling to the ground, the blonde swung a right hook across Mark's face, teeth crashed together and blood sprayed across the concrete. Mark tumbled backwards onto the ground.

"Had enough?"

"Still no…"

Mark struggled, tried to get up, but was knocked down by fist after fist from the blonde man towering over him now.

"Stop!" Mark gasped finally, blood spattering from his mouth. A hand reached down and grabbed his arm, lifting him up then holding him around the waist.

Then Mark understood, through the aching pain and near blindness that caused his head to throb and ring, he understood what it was all about and why people kept coming back. The same guy that beat the shit out of you two minutes ago, was the first guy who helped you up and kept you steady. There was something so deep and natural about it, prehistoric…perfect. Fuck technology and superhighways, internets and self righteousness. You'll never find happiness in the covers of a magazine, or in the window of a department store. Not real happiness, not the kind that comes from your heart and stomach and floods your mind to the point where you truly believe you can understand the nature of creation. Fuck all that shit that men in suits try to force down your throats and make you think that you want to have a perfect life.

We're humans, red blooded, a basic and bestial brotherhood of man.

That was Mark's final transition; no one could tell him he was a woman now. He didn't care what the world said or how the government told him to live his life.

Sure, he came into this damn place like a wad of cookie dough, and yeah, he'd been beaten into the dirt. He wasn't some girl in disguise who wanted to play the boys at their own game, learn a few martial arts tricks and take one of them down to silence some misogynistic inner demon that whispered that men were better. It wasn't a question of who won or who lost and it never would be. There was something so much more than that going on.

The men of the earth, the real men of the earth, longed for a leader, they longed for the pack and the dark haired man that the others called Tyler was the alpha male that they were all seeking.

Mark reckoned that it wouldn't take much for them to follow him to the ends of the earth.

All references to Fight Club or characters of Fight Club belong to Chuck, not me.