"I ain't gonna throw the fight!" Mac snapped, his eyes glinting fiercely. "Why the heck would I?"

Rat-tail spread his hands matter-of-factly. He hadn't exactly expected the Bronxite to consider his request; at least, not right away. But he was neither pleased nor impressed by Mac's defiance all the same, rolling his eyes as if he had to re-explain a simple concept to a child. "Listen, Shorty, you're lucky Macho's even giving you a chance to face him. It's wannabes like you that totally make him and the whole sport look bad. I know I'd die of embarrassment in the ring with some midget-fag." He pulled a face. "That Disco-flamer already made me puke a little in my mouth. Macho deserves a REAL boxer to pound to dust. So how about you quit while you're still in one piece and leave boxing to the men, huh?"

Heads turned, curious passers-by slowing their pace.

The words formed a thick fog around Mac, and for a while he was too stunned to think of a coherent response, squinting. "What?"

"Dude's totally wigging out." Pompadour said with a snort, still leaning against the store front with his arms folded across his chest. "He's gonna bust a vein if you keep eggin' him, Ron."

Rat-tail grinned fiercely, and something about that smile of deep, private, predatory satisfaction rattled Mac to the core. "You heard me, Shorty. Say, we hear you're sleeping up in a single hotel room with that fat, butt-ugly coach of yours. Don't think we don't know what you're up to. Looks like Coach's got no problem boinking a kid, huh? Likes 'em real nice and tight. Is that how he trains you?"

The image made Pompadour's face twist into a pained grimace. "Ugh, that's fucking gross, dude."

From the way his stomach lurched, Mac felt for a moment like he was still in the plane and experiencing a steep drop in cabin pressure. But then every word sank in inch by inch, his pulse hammering his skull while a surge of rage choked the breath out of him. From the stiffness of his mouth and the subtle jerking motions in his throat, it almost seemed as though he was fighting back tears. But Mac's slitted eyes were clear and sharp, pinned on the young man standing before him. "Don't you ever, EVER talk about me n' Doc that way!" He spat viciously, unaware of how hard he was shaking. "He ain't ever done nothin' wrong to me or to nobody! You take that back!"

"Or what?" Rat-tail prodded with an amused lilt to his voice, flicking a glance at his friend. "What're you gonna do?" Pausing, the look of cocky amusement on his face twisted into a grim, hard smile. He massaged his knuckles. "You try any funny business around here and we'll make sure that you and guys like you get the fuck off our street. Though, iunno, I guess we could leave something for Macho Man so he can really splatter you all over the ring."

Tight-lipped and nostrils flaring, the kid took a brisk half-step forward only for Rat-tail's hand to shove against his chest and thrust him back. Pompadour broke into laughter that seemed to press in on Mac from all sides.

The kid's mouth went dry, his head throbbing harder as all the liquid in his body worked to a roiling boil and the world spun round and round -

And suddenly Mac saw someone's hand thrust out and smash squarely into Rat-tail's nose with a force that rocked the guy's head back, close enough to hear the brutal crunching of cartilage and a high-pitched wail of pain.

Then something hot and wet spurted over his own knuckles, jarring him to his senses.

Blood.

Realization slid through his gut like a cold knife.

"Christ!" Rat-tail snarled as he clutched at his oozing, twisted lump of a nose with trembling hands, tears and thick rivers of blood streaking his lips and chin. "The fucker broke my nose!"

Mac felt as if all his blood had drained out of him in a tingling rush and he stared back for a moment, frozenly and unseeingly, the hollow ache of anxiety quickening and deepening in his chest. Suddenly, Rat-tail was lunging at him – and the teen's mind promptly shifted into auto-pilot with an ease that surprised himself, synapses firing wildly. His body instinctively slipped under the punch and he wheeled around in time to feel something dull and heavy slam into the back of his head with a force that seemed to joggle his eyes. The explosion of pain and disorientation sent him staggering sideways into a brick wall, gasping as he braced it with a hand. His surroundings were a blurry jumble of colours, bright spots pulsing in his vision. Reaching back to shakily probe his throbbing skull, he felt no blood. But relief was quick to fade when he raised his head and drowsily looked about, blinking hard in an attempt to sharpen his focus. People were rushing at him, too many people…

And Mac found himself sucked into a powerful vortex, jostled around and struck at, pushed and pulled, hands snatching his tank top and at the waist of his track pants, tugging him into punches and kicks while others tried to yank him free. He sluggishly pulled his fists to his chest defensively, tasting blood and bile. The shouting and grunting and the heavy, meaty thud of blows connecting sounding dim, far away, as if this were someone else's body and someone else's life unfolding.

But then a single cry, alarmingly clear, pierced the noise, changing everything.

"Break his hands! That'll teach the fucker some manners!"

A roar of approval.

Mac broke out into an icy sweat, his eyes widening sharply. Half-blinded by panic, he shot a wild, almost pleading glance left and right, searching for a sympathetic face, a familiar face. A frisson raced through his backbone when someone from behind him reached around and grabbed hold of his wrist, beginning to twist his arm at an awkward angle. A burning twinge of pain sent a fresh pang of fear through him.

"Stop!" He cried out, fighting to wrench himself free. "Lemme go!"

And then the vice-like grip released.

But there wasn't the chance for a reeling Mac to appreciate the overwhelming relief that should have flooded him, because he was being shoved roughly against a wall and pinned there even as he thrashed, the bricks grazing his cheek as he twisted his head to try and look. "Get off!"

"Don't move!" A voice commanded him, as sharp and authoritative as the crack of a whip. He went rigid, his chest heaving, as something cold snapped and tightened around his wrists. "You are under arrest."