Maeve Butler's Story

”This is John Martin, reporting for BBC One News live from Stormont Estate, where an apparent bombing by terrorist group Fomóraigh during the seventeenth delegation to vote on reunification has damaged much of the Parliament Buildings, injuring dozens. It is currently not known how many are dead, but estimates are not optimistic. As yet, there have been no arrests, but police are working closely with the British Heroes League and United Celtic Heroes Association to uncover the culprits behind this heinous attack on British democracy. Back to you in the studio, Anna.”


Maeve pressed herself against a shipping container another pair of supers passed by overhead, flying low as they scanned the area for anyone suspicious. Her fingers dug deep into the metal as they flew off into the distance; she understood the need for subtlety, but she hated having to hide like this, especially when it felt like she was running away.
”Alright, everything’s ready,” Saoirse said, slipping out of the shadows once the hero patrol was gone. ”We got a freight ship willing to take ye. Ye should be there in just a few days.”
”A few days?” Maeve pulled her fingers out of the shipping container and rubbed at her hands. Good thing it was empty, given the holes it now had in its side. ”Where are ye sending me, anyway?”
”Atlas City.”
”America?” She ran one hand through her hair. ”I admit, this is a bit of a mess, but-”
Saoirse shook her head. ”No, this works out. We needed someone to meet with a contact in Atlas City anyway.”
Maeve sighed through her nose as the two of them started walking toward the pier, keeping away from the lights in case any more patrols came through the area. A contact in Atlas City. So Paul had decided to go through with the plan to seek external support. She understood it from a tactical perspective, but it still left a foul taste in her mouth. Even if everyone in their “organization” had powers, Fomóraigh was still less than 100 strong, and despite the media’s insistence to the contrary had existed for less than a decade. Still, Maeve wasn’t thrilled at the thought of them becoming beholden to someone else, especially someone for whom the Fomóraigh and their ideals were little more than a convenient business opportunity.
”So?”
”So what?”
Saoirse pulled Maeve to a stop. ”Don’t play stupid,” she chastised, looking up at the sky instead of at Maeve. Her grip was tight on Maeve’s arm. ”If ye lost yourself at the assembly, then does that mean-”
”Yes.”
Saoirse let out a foul string of Gaelge that was only silenced by Maeve putting her hand over her mouth to keep Saoirse from giving their location away to any supers still in the area. Saoirse struggled under her grip for a bit, then huffed and tapped Maeve’s forearm to signal it was fine to let go now.
”No bleedin’ wonder ye lost it! I would too!” Saoirse spoke in the breathy shout-whisper of someone trying not to wake the dead. ”Seventeen damned blood-fuck years! You’d think they’d just give up the act at this point!”
Maeve sighed. ”Aye, well.”
The Northern Ireland Assembly’s Seventeenth Delegation to Vote on Irish Reunification. The best joke they’d come up with yet. As if they would ever actually vote to leave the Crown’s good graces. Or that Parliament would ever really let them. Instead they played a game every year where they’d gather up in Stormont Estate, pretend they were going to have a serious discussion on the subject, then ultimately vote against it while the English media ran feel-good pieces about how nice and loyal and unified the Kingdom was, and wasn’t it grand how much Northern Ireland preferred them to the Republic? Maeve found it absolutely vile.
”Come on. You’re the one who knows which ship it is.” She turned and continued walking toward the pier. Saoirse’s mouth opened and closed a few times, evidently with more to say, but instead she just huffed and jogged to catch up.
”It’s this one,” she said, indicating a large American cargo ship which appeared to have finished loading at least 2 hours prior. ”They were planning to leave a bit earlier, but we managed to convince them to push back their schedule.”
”Alright then.” She lifted the wide hat hanging off her back up onto her head. ”I’ll be off. Try not to let Paul break everything apart without me, aye?”
”Just a second, Maeve.” Saoirse grabbed Maeve’s arm and turned her around before pulling her down for a hug. ”Be wide, aye? There’re a lot more supers in Atlas. Mind your temper.”
”Are you my ma now?” Maeve quipped, pulling away.
”Not with that attitude,” Saoirse replied, laughing. Maeve turned to leave, and Saoirse stopped her again. ”One more thing. Paul might want ye to get this boxed, but an agreement goes both ways. If ye feel they can’t help us, or ye don’t trust them, just leave. We can find someone else.”
Maeve was quiet for a long moment, looking out at the sea. ”That might not matter,” she said finally. ”But I’ll bear it in mind. See ye when it’s done, Saoirse.” Then she left and boarded the ship to Atlas City, leaving the rest of the Fomóraigh to hold the fort without her.

The sharp ringing of an old analog phone jolted Maeve from half-conscious dozing. She opened her eyes blearily, then immediately shut them again as bright morning light struck her from the grated window. ”God- feck off,” she mumbled as her hand fumbled around for the phone. She found it… and then immediately shot it into the opposite wall when she misjudged the strength needed to pick it up in her still-bleary state. ”Ugh.” At least the ringing stopped.
She dragged herself up and moved to the bathroom to splash water on her face, then dried off with a towel that smelled like… something, before moving out into the hall. The next room’s residents, a young woman and another woman twice her age who had a wedding ring on her finger, had also stepped out. The younger of the two was holding… most of what had once been a phone.
”We, uh. Found your phone in our room.”
Maeve sighed and took the wreckage from her. ”Much obliged."
She turned and walked out to the lobby, trying to ignore the sound of footsteps trying to match her long stride.
The lobby was small, and had that musty smell of a place that’s had a roach infestation long enough that they’d given up trying to control it. The clerk behind the desk was a thin man who appeared far more interested in the 30 year old tv on the desk than in any of the customers who came through the establishment. His eyes flicked over to register Maeve’s presence for only an instant before turning back to the television. ”Called to let you know your time was up. Would you like an extension?” he drawled.
”No,” she said, setting the broken phone on the counter. ”This fell off the nightstand.”
The man’s eyes went from the phone, to the Maeve, to the woman lurking behind Maeve, to the wall, then back to the TV. ”Kay.” He set a bowl for room keys on the counter without looking. It was clear to Maeve that this was a thoroughly practiced action. ”That’ll be $126.37 for seven hours in the room.”
”Do ye take pounds?”
”No.”
”Ugh.” Maeve slipped her wallet back into her pocket. She hadn’t had time to switch her currency before leaving, and the banks were already closed when she arrived the night before. ”Do ye do currency exchange?”
”No.”
”Can I go to the-”
”No.”
”Ugh.”
The clerk huffed in annoyance. ”Just have your girlfriend pay.”
”My- What?” She turned to look where he pointed. The older woman from earlier waggled her fingers at her. “Eh-”
”Don’t be so shy, darling,” the woman said, moving past her and producing her wallet from… somewhere. ”You can just pay me back later,” she added with a wink.
With that taken care of, Maeve and the woman walked outside. Maeve followed the woman for several blocks in silence, sizing her up; she hadn’t noticed it the first time, but though the woman was dressed modestly her clothing was made from deceptively expensive material. It was only designed to look cheap; in reality, Maeve estimated this woman was wearing several thousand dollars worth of clothing. She was suddenly very suspicious. It wasn’t that unusual for rich, bored housewives to find fun outside their marriage, but she couldn’t imagine they would go out of their way to help a random immigrant for pure philanthropy.
”What kind of favor did ye want from me?” she probed.
The woman stopped, and Maeve had to take a quick step back to avoid running over her. ”You’re very strong.”
Maeve’s eyes narrowed slightly. [color=44#3f13]”If you’re looking for a bodyguard, I’m already-”[/color]
The woman shook her head. ”No, it’s not that. An… acquaintance told me to be on the lookout for a large Irish woman who would be arriving sometime around today.”
Maeve didn’t like that comment. Paul had told her over encrypted phonecall that her contact would be a white-haired man in his 30s. This woman was none of those things. If there had been an information leak, she needed to get back to Belfast quickly.
”Ah, maybe that gives you the wrong idea,” the woman said, apparently sensing she may have tripped some wires. ”I work for the man you were sent to meet with. He wanted me to bring you to him.”
”...And that’s where we’re going now?”
The woman hesitated. ”Not exactly.” Maeve turned to leave. ”Wait! Wait.” The woman rushed after her and grabbed her arm. ”This is just… a favor, right? Think of it as a chance to impress the new boss.”
Maeve scratched the back of her head, pulling her arm gently from the woman’s hands. This seemed like a giant pain in the ass. So, this woman had decided to put her employer’s business partner to work to do… what? Some kind of manual labor?
”This actually works out pretty well for me,” the woman continued. ”My original entry dropped out when he learned who his opponent was, so having you here-”
”What opponent?” The woman shrank back slightly. Maeve was… a lot bigger than she was.
”R- right, there’s this… event, you see? A game, sort of. People of my particular standing, you see, we like excitement, right? And what’s more exciting than superpowers?”
Maeve leaned her head back slightly as understanding dawned. ”A fight club.” That wasn’t… entirely objectionable. She’d had to keep her distance from the supers back home so she didn’t draw too much attention, but if this was an opportunity to blow off some steam against a real opponent for once…
The woman fiddled with her wedding ring a bit. ”Not so loud, it's not exactly something we like to broadcast.”
”And that’s where we’re going?”
She shook her head. ”No, it’s not until tonight. But there are preparations to make. I need to register you properly, and we can’t just have you showing up looking however.”
Maeve sighed. She wasn’t thrilled by the idea of being dressed up like a toy for some bored socialite. Still, if this was her connection to the contact, it’s not like she had much choice. Or… anything better to do.

March 11th, 2045, 8:39pm: Atlas City, North Carolina, USA

"Master of 'ze house, doling out 'ze charm. Ready with a handshake and an open palm," Monsieur Vic hummed to himself as he marched through the kitchen. His hands were tucked behind his back, his velvet black tuxedo lintless. White uniformed cooks sliced exotic meats while others sauteed over open flame. The head chef called out to his staff in a thick dutch accent but Monsieur Vic had no time to scrutinize his work. Right now he had other concerns.

He cornered a hall where rows of serving girls stood, hairless legs in black dresses matching his suit. Each held a golden trey in hand. They gave a respectful bow to Monsieur Vic as he marched through the swinging doors and out of the staff area, into the VIP section of the club. The harsh, white oled lighting of the staff corridor was replaced by warm incandescents. One of the duo of bartenders gave the monsieur a nod as he passed before continuing to shake the drink he was preparing.

Shapeless was the most exclusive club in Atlas city. The dining was impeccable: between black marble sculptures stood benches and tables carved from the same oak as the doors of Harvard. There they eat their roast octopus and pheasant, each meal a gourmet work of art. The best of the best for their clientele: old men whose sweat tasted of money and old women whose pussies tasted of wine. And of course their dining companions- voluptuous and dolled in the latest and most expensive fashions. Young and hungry.

At the bar the handsome staff poured out thousand dollar bottles of vodka, music echoing from the distant dance floor where richly dressed guests danced the night away, consumed by the very purest cocaine. "Monsieur Vic," A dressed waitress said, walking with the man as he moved alongside the dance-floor, in the shadows of the lights. "A guest's bought the entire bar shots of '48 LaCron and his credit card just flagged-"

Monsieur Vic raised his hand, dismissing the waitress' concerns. She bowed respectfully and went off to solve the issue herself. The monsieur had more important issues to address right now. Issues concerning tonight's main event.

In the centre of the VIP section was a sunken arena, home to the greatest battles one could pay for. The greatest boxing matches the world had even seen. Gods battling gods.

***

The traffic doors of the alleyway beside Shapeless opened. Monsieur Vic stepped out of the club's warehouse. Between two black turtlenecked members of security a woman stood. Both the muscle bound men measured in the middle of the six-foot range, but she still towered above them.

"So you're the human meat?" Monsieur Vic snorted, his finely waxed moustache twitching as he spoke. "You're late."

”No I’m not.” The two men on either side of her moved to block her with their arms extended in front of her chest as she took a step forward, and pivoted like turnstiles as she walked right through them.
”Hold it,” Monsieur Vic demanded, puffing out his chest. ”We need to make a few things clear before-” Maeve brushed right past him without a hint of hesitation. She had no interest in the blustering of men sent to ensure she played the losing role in a game meant to entertain a litter of bored aristocrats. ”I’ve been told,” she said without turning to look at him, pushing her way into the kitchen.
There were shouts of surprise and indignation from the kitchen staff, and Monsieur Vic chased after Maeve to find her patrolling down the prep line, picking at food being plated for Shapeless’s exclusive clientele. ”What the fuck are you-”
”I’ve a mouth on me,” Maeve replied, turning over a ball of roast octopus before popping it in her mouth. ”Your woman kept me all day and never offered anything to eat. Doubt your crowd would get much fun watching that hero have a go with someone half starved, aye?”
Monsieur Vic stared at her with his mouth agape for a long moment, his face so red steam was nearly coming out of his ears. He rushed forward to pull her away, but only succeeded at tugging uselessly at her sleeve as she continued on as if he wasn’t there. ”You- you can’t just-”
”Charge it to your flaithulach hero, doubt they’d notice much.”
Vic ground his teeth, enraged at the sheer nerve of this nameless loser hired off the street to serve as fodder for Super Roma Number One. ”Alright,” he began, speaking through his teeth. ”Listen here, you stupid Irish bitch. Cannonade is not-” Maeve was suddenly looming directly over him, her face inches from his own. Monsieur Vic’s voice faltered as he stared into her listless expression, her grey eyes seeming to stare straight through him. He found that he was suddenly very intimately aware of how much smaller than her he was. ”C- Cannonade is not the type to- the, uh… You can’t, just, uh...”
He swallowed hard, lowering his gaze and backing away. He waved down one of his cooks, gave him some quick instructions under his breath, then very quickly went to busy himself with something else. After a moment Maeve was directed to the staff room to wait, and a large tray of potato skins was brought out for her several minutes later.
Maeve tossed one in her mouth, leaning back in the cheap aluminum chair and gazing at the holographic clock projected on the wall. She had about 15… no, 12 minutes now, until she was scheduled to fight- to “fight” the hero Cannonade for the amusement of the club’s VIPs. To think she’d been tricked into something so completely asinine. She’d been hoping to relieve stress with a genuine brawl - a good, solid scrap that didn’t end the instant her first fist connected.
Mother Mary knew she could use it - that mess in Belfast, followed by a week stuck in the hold of the world’s slowest cargo ship and now this nonsense. Maeve knew better than anyone that patience was a practiced skill, but even hers threatened to wear a bit thin.
”oh, wow, you’re really tall.”
She turned her head at the sound of a voice. A young man, college age maybe. Probably one of the dishwashers. ”Can I help ye?”
”Oh, no, I’m just- I’m on break.”
”Mm.”
The boy remained in the doorway, eyes fixed on her. Maeve got the distinct impression he might be the slightest bit nervous about sharing the room with her. ”I’m not going to bite ye.”
The boy looked flustered. ”Oh- No, I- Sorry, it’s just, um. You’re the one the owner hired for the fight tonight, right? That’s cool.” He hesitated for a moment, then moved to sit across from her. He leaned forward, his arms on the table, still not taking his eyes from her. Maeve wasn’t quite sure what to make of that.
”So you have powers, right? Like real- like real superpowers, like on the news, huh. That’s cool. I don’t. I mean. Obviously I don’t. It’s cool that you do, though. So do you like… fly? Do you fly? I hear Cannon- Mr.- Miss? Uh, Cannonade can fly. I don’t really know if that’ll matter, though, I don’t really know how big the ring is, I’ve never- I only ever go in the kitchen, here, so I-” The boy blathered on for a while longer. Maeve watched the clock intently, the boy’s rambling only half-registering in her mind. Eight minutes left. Was she in hell?
”Oh, my, would ye look at the time,” Maeve interjected gently, interrupting something about giant wolves and black coats. ”And I would love to stay and listen to ye rabbit on a bit longer - honest, I would - but I need to get going to the arena now. Pleasure chatting with ye, though.” She rose out of her seat and moved to leave the staff room, grabbing the last handful of potato skins to stuff in her mouth.
”Oh! Okay!” the dishwasher boy said, rising with her before realizing he had nowhere to be and slowly sitting back down. ”I’ll be rooting for you.”
Maeve stopped for a moment in the doorway. ”...Aye, ye do that.” Then she went to find her entrance to the arena.

The entrance to the arena, as Maeve would find out, was down a stairwell off the side of a staff corridor. A metal door not quite as tall as Maeve was at the bottom. The words: 'Fitting Room' were written on a glass sign on the front. Inside Maeve would be greeted by warm lights and white tiled floors. Though not quite as lush as the rest of the club it was no school locker room. The air was steamy, as though someone had recently used the showers to her left. And instead of the pounding that dominated the upper floors of the club, gentle singing echoed.

"Every day we're taking pills, afternoon and evening quill... putting on a show like vaud-e-ville." It was a raspy voice, the tone unclear if it was a man or a woman. Sitting to the right, on the wooden bench in the centre of the change room, sat Cannonade- unmasked to reveal a bushel of curly brown hairs and tan skin coated in freckles. They wore some sort of black silken kimono, their name on the back. "Twenty thousand years ago I'd probably feel this strong, somewhere in a cave- fighting the ice age. Showing off the tiger that I fought today... and the bite marks on my face."

The tone went dead as Cannon turned to the new entrant. "Oh," Cannonade rose from their hunched over position at the newcomer. Their eyes were bright and green- catlike in their intensity. "Hey."

"Howya."
This... wasn't what Maeve was expecting. She hadn't expected to run into her... "opponent" until there were already in the arena, not find them singing alone to themself in a dressing room.
Maeve's apathetic grey eyes swept the room once; her recruitment had been a bit too last minute for the organizers to have prepared anything for her here, so she already wore her attire for the event under a long, hooded boxing coat. There wasn't really much for her to do here aside from pass the last few minutes somewhere without other people... or so she'd assumed.You'd think a club like this could afford more than one dressing room. Unless...
"I haven't found myself in the wrong room, have I?" Her voice was quiet and even.

“I don’t know, are you here to kick my ass?” Cannonade said with a smile. Their voice was fairly neutral American, though hints of Caribbean root be heard beneath it. “If you are, then-“ They clicked their tongue before separating their pointer and middle finger to indicate to the splitting halls at the end of the dressing room, each leading to a respective side of the arena they would enter.

"Ah. Suppose they aren't afraid of a bit of milling before the match proper, then. " Then again, since they're all rigged anyway... "Speaking of."
She moved to lean against a locker near the exit halls, yet close enough for her soft voice to still be heard. "They told me I shouldn't dig ye in the face. Suppose it's understandable they'd have their concerns about that, but I thought I'd ask ye myself anyways. Wouldn't want to offend by seeming like I'm going easy on ye, in the interest of sportsmanship."

"You're really fucking tall," Cannonade interrupted as they stared up at Maeve, making no attempt at responding to their words. “Yeah, face is a no go,” They eventually replied. “Also, I was working earlier today and-“ Cannonade lifted by the leg of their kimono to reveal a thigh coated in bruises. “So watch the punches.”

Cannonade walked toward one of the sinks of the changing room. A few snacks in a napkin were laid out there. “You want some sherry? Maybe a little-” They placed a finger on their nostril and winked.

"I drink a lot of milk," she replied without missing a beat.
They were injured. Hm.
"No. Bevvies and sneachta aren't big friends of mine. Health concerns. But by all means, crack on."
Maeve watched them from the locker, judging their height, their weight, eyes tracing the length of their arms. There were things you couldn't get a proper feel for in just videos, after all. She also paid attention to how they carried themself; were they favoring their leg, or making a show of an otherwise meaningless injury?
Maeve shook her head a bit and pinched the bridge of her nose. Stop looking for openings in a fake fight.
Maeve joined Cannonade by the sink, studying the tiny selection of snacks and more robust selection of narcotics. She picked up a fried shrimp, tapping it once on the napkin to shake off any loose crumbs before leaning away from Super Roma #1.
"Should reconsider the sherry," Maeve commented, her face too stiff and impassive to tell whether she actually gave a shit. "If ye go out and make an ass of yourself cos your too off your face, it won't make for quite the show they paid for." She was quiet for a second, then shrugged and added, "Could still be fun, I guess."

“Could still be fun,” Cannon repeated with a smile and nod before letting out a little laugh at the absurdity. “Toss me out the arena, I’ll throw up on a rich guy’s suit.” Cannonade rose an eyebrow at the woman beside them. They had no idea who this was. They weren't in Nahla or any of the PCs, they'd have recognized her if she was. No, this was someone off the streets. A fucking Irish rube.

“These streaks of white are so pretty,” Cannonade said, crossing one leg over the leg. They knew they could be cute when they wanted to be. They pushed themselves off the sink and turned to Maeve. It was rare they had to reach for anything, but to reach the head of their opponent they had to stretch. The fingers on their left hand touched a loose thicket of white hair and combed them behind Maeve’s ears as she chewed. Cannon let out a smile, baring their white fangs. They smelt of avocado butters, coconut oil, weed, flowers and just a hint of sweat.

They stink.

And suddenly something was wrong. Maeve’s body felt heavy, as though a pressure had started weighing down on them. Cannonade stepped backward, revealing their right hand extended palm first.

“Is this too much for you?” Cannon asked in a baby voice as their grip became tighter. Maeve’s bones grew heavy as the pressure increased. It felt as if her body was being held down on all sides. “Is this?” The grip grew smaller. Maeve’s body grew heavy and her bones creaked under the pressure. She felt the tail of the shrimp catch at the back of her throat.

Off the sink table Cannonade pulled a black mask, seemingly matching the black marble statues of the club, and slid it over their face. They green eyes examined Maeve, trying to find how much gravity their opponent could take.

“How about this?” Their grip grew tighter. Tight enough to crush the body of a normal man. They knew. They’d done it before. Air could barely be pulled into collapsing lungs. Muscles spasmed. The floor beneath Maeve’s feet began to chip as the pressure grew. “In case you didn’t recognize me without the helmet- I’m Cannonade,” Cannonade introduced, leaning forward. “I don’t lose. Let’s keep it that way, eh?”

And then, they released. Maeve could breathe easily again. Cannonade turned, downed the sherry and smashed the glass into the ground before walking off to their side of the arena.

"Aye, I know who ye are, ye wee cunt." Maeve swore under her breath. It was rare she'd been caught off guard like that. This was certainly... a new experience, compared to the capes who haunted the Isles. A thin, almost predatory smile crept across her face as she leaned against the wall for a moment and wiping .a thin rivulet of thick black blood from her nose. "Should I take this as permission to stop being polite?"

March 11th, 2045, 8:43pm: Atlas City, North Carolina, USA

Maxwell had finished donning his outfit and took a few moments to admire it in a mirror. The strange, unnatural darkness, coupled with the slight sheen from the reflective materials over top, made it strange to behold. In some darker lit areas even, it could almost appear invisible. He returned to his desk and took a seat, making a few final checks before the match would start. The room was a sumptuous mixture of the classic, and the modern, with dark oak wood panels and book cases lining the walls, black marble floors, tile, and even pillars. Then there were the glittering stainless steel highlights, and the ceiling which shone brilliantly with bright lights making up several rows, though they could be adjusted to different brightnesses or colors. And of course there was his desk chair, with dark oak, red leather, and shiny brass accents and button to decorate it.

He was deep in thought about tonight's fight. It was rigged, of course. Such a shame too. Evidently it was good for business, but he'd already heard all about the Irish giant of a woman who'd been brought in. He had every expectation that she may exceed his expectations, but that just made his feelings all the harder to reconcile. Business was business, but at his core... He almost wished she wouldn't lose the fight...

There was a light knock at the door to Maxwell's office. Ulysses and Willoughby stepped in, two of his oldest companions and employees. Then men were tall, large, and most strikingly, albino. They both wore well tailored, robins egg blue suits, and carried themselves with a sense of professionalism and pride. "Mr. Landon, we've got some interesting news. There's a celebrity in the club tonight." Ulysses smiled softly as Willoughby approached Maxwell's desk and placed a photo down on it. "Vicki Vortex."

After a few moments studying the photo, behind the black mask Maxwell's eyes began to light up a little brighter. "Was she... The girl from the park? Very very intriguing. It seems fate is hard at work today." Maxwell nodded to the two men as he stood and left the desk. "No need to worry about me tonight gentlemen. Let Monsieur Vic know not to cause her any trouble, you know how passionate he can be about the club. But this guest may be VIP material I think, of the highest caliber."



Vicki stood at the bar counter awaiting her drink, when a slight knock against the counter top snapped her attention to someone now standing beside her. From head to toe he was covered in pure black, a slight sheen from the lights being the only thing that broke the color. The bar man seemed to have focused every shred of attention he had instantly on the man in black.

"This one's on the house for our guest here." He spoke pleasantly, in a voice unfamiliar to Vicki, altered by internal mechanisms designed to obscure one's natural voice. "Apologies for the interruption madame, I hope you have been enjoying your evening so far." He said considerately.

March 11th, 2045, 8:43pm: Atlas City, North Carolina, USA

Maxwell smiled under his mask, already beginning to enjoy the company of the starlet, and starting to understand why others felt the same. "The man of the house?" He chuckled slightly. "I don't think I've met many men with houses quite as busy as this one. But yes, I suppose I am the 'man of the house', and very pleased to have you as a guest Miss Vicky." He did a playful flourish and bow.

She continued by trying to coax him out of the darkness, using some rather charming guile to quite successful effect, but The Shape had guile too, and more than enough experience to know how to keep himself protected. "You make such a tempting offer, and I'd be inclined to accept almost, but there's a little hitch in your plan." He said in a soft voice as he leaned his left arm against the countertop.

"I don't like to make things easy." He waved over the waiter, who quickly brought over a platter filled with packets of cigarettes. The Shape plucked one up, lit it, and placed it to the lips of his mask. When the smoke filtered out, it came gracefully through the lips of the mask, like a gentle, smokey cloud.

"But I suppose it wouldn't be fair of me to play too hard. You can call me Shape if you like, it's what everyone else does. Of course, you don't seem like an 'everyone else'. Trendsetters never are."



The arena of Shapeless was a glittering gem of a sports realm. The walls were made of black marble, with highlights of white and gold folded into that polished stone. The seating was steep, going high up the cylindrical room to maximize on space as much as possible, and to provide a high vantage point for fights that occurred in the center.

Above the seats were located a series of separated rooms with floor to ceiling windows, reserved for VIP guests, and The Shape himself, to observe fights from.

Crowds had already taken their seats in the tall room, and at the center, the fighting ring, a series of bright white spotlights found themselves centering, landing on a single man. His body was mostly thin, other than the bulging beer belly he sported, jutting awkwardly from the fine, crisp black tuxedo he wore. The hair on his head was black, but heavily balding, and he sported a very long, thin, and curling mustache.

The man was Monsieur Ric, the announcer of Shapeless's prestigious fights. The lights stopped over him, and the sound of an electronic drum set began to resound around the room. The crowd began to clap along in time with Carpenter Brut's "Maniac", the energy in the room quickly rising.

Finally the main riff of the tune kicked in, and the crowd erupted into raucous cheers. Monsieur Ric began to cartwheel, back flip, somersault, and dance around the stage with a kind of possessed energy that absolutely did not make sense in a man of his physical appearance.

"LADIES!!! GENTLEMEN!!! EVERYONE ELSE BETWEEN!!! Welcome back to another Shapeless Superhero SHOWDOOOOOOOOOWN! Tonight, we TRULY have what could be the FIGHT OF OUR LIVES!"

The crowd began to erupt into more cheers and shouts of praise for Ric, for Shapeless, and of course, for Cannonade.

"HAILING from Trinidad and Tobago, the last survivor of the FAMED Super Roma PC, one of Europe's GREATEST heroes, the strong willed, GRAVITY wielding CANON of a person, it's CANONAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADE!" The crowd was electrified as men and women called out the name of their favorite hero, some throwing money, and other symbols of affection, to the center of the arena.

"And their challenger for tonight, HAILING from the Emerald Isle of IRELAND, a GIANTESS of a woman, with strength no MERE MORTAL may yet understand, a MOUNTAIN of MYSTERY, it's MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAEVE!" Now the crowd was noticeably less energized, though some did still cheer, and throw their own bits of affections (some out of mere drunkenness), but others still even felt the need to boo. They were fewer, as it wasn't seen as quite as 'high class', but not everyone could maintain the same standards expected in Shapeless.

The match was about to begin.

"Hey! Hey! Hey!" The woman who had 'hired' Maeve this morning flagged her down as she walked down the hall toward her entrance to the arena. Bloodadder Robinson, as Maeve had learned her name was, was standing off to the side of the large curtains which led out of the fitting room, looking both excited and a little worried.
"Have ye been standing here the entire time?"
"Yeah, yeah," Bloodadder confirmed, sounding a little rushed. "I just wanna go over a couple things real quick before they call your- are you smiling?
"No."
"What's got you in a good mood?"
"Nothing."
Bloodadder huffed. "Well, I suppose it's good to see you enthusiastic, though you could stand to smile a little- Oh, wow your facial muscles are completely dead," she prodded at Maeve's face for a moment, trying to make her smile wider before giving up. She busied herself fussing with Maeve's clothes and hair instead, standing on her toes to reach. "Anyway, remember that while Cannonade is meant to win this, you should still make sure to get few licks in, we want it to seem real after all, so put on a good show and make it look like they have to work for their victory, ok? Oh, but don't go for the face, I hear they sue for that."
The sound of 80's disco pop came through the other side of the curtain.
Oh! Oh, ok, ok, it's starting. Remember, good show, no face, try not to kill them, they aren't very durable without their suit- Oh!" She stretched to pull up the hood on Maeve's boxer coat. "Keep your hood up when you walk out, it'll make you more mysterious."
She turned to hurry off to someplace Maeve didn't particularly care about. The spectator seats maybe, or a viewing box with her - well, their, now - boss. Bloodadder had almost turned the corner when one more thought seemed to occur to her, and she spun back around. "I'll be rooting for you! Even if it's rigged. Never know what might happen! Good luck! Don't die!" And then she was gone.
"-gravity wielding CANNON of a person-"
Guess it was showtime.

Cannonade emerged from the shadow of their entrance into the pit. The lean super jumped a few times in the air as warm up, each jump they raising themself higher and higher in the air. They then marched toward their opponent as extremely bad music played overhead, no doubt offending everyone at the club. They weren't here to talk. They were here to fight.

Maeve squinted her eyes at the bright lights of the arena as she pushed her way through the heavy curtain. She walked slowly, deliberately, coat fluttering around her. She came to a stop roughly five meters from her opponent, looking down the bridge of her nose at them from within the shadow of her hood.
Monsieur Ric stood between them, pulling two microphones from… somewhere. "Do our GLADIATORS have any words they want to say to each other before the CHAOS STARTS?!" he asked, holding the mics out to each of them with clear intent for them to hype up the crowd.
Cannonade shook their head; they were here to fight, not talk. Maeve took her microphone. She looked at it, turning it over in her hands in contemplation. There was some murmuring in the crowd, and the announcer looked at her expectantly.
Then she threw it full force at Cannonade, missing by millimeters as the wind force carved a thin red line in their cheek before the microphone impacted with the wall behind them, causing a horrific feedback screech to scream throughout the arena as it tore straight through the marble. The sound of the now dead mic clattering under the stands on the opposite side echoed through the stunned silence of the arena. Monsieur Ric stared, mouth agape, and for a moment nothing moved. Maeve tore off the boxer's coat, letting the tattered shreds fall to the floor as the spotlights illuminated a simple mma outfit bound to her carved muscular form, boxers tape wrapped around her fists and forearms.
Ric took one step back, then another. "U-uhh… Fight start," he fumbled out, before turning and sprinting through a side exit which led up to his announcer's booth.
The ground shattered under Maeve's feet as she launched herself forward, delivering a rolling kick to the side of Cannonade's head. She'd never been in a fight where she had to hold back before; she honestly wasn't sure how well she'd do at it, but she reasoned she'd at least be able to bring it down to the level of a champion heavyweight kickboxer. That should be good enough. Maybe she'd even get to have a bit of fun like this.

Cannonade's body flew to the side, their head barely dodging the projectile microphone the Irish asshat had thrown. Off their shoulders the silken kimono flew, revealing black biker shorts and a top, similar to Maeve's minus the knuckle and forearm tape. Ok, Cannonade thought. They were strong.

And then Maeve launched forward, the giant of a woman immediately consuming Cannonade's view before they had a chance to react, a kick coming to their head. And they were fast. Of course, they were up against Cannon-fucking-nade, who'd made a career out of being fast. Cannon bowed beneath the kick frantically before side-stepping another, though they could feel the loose ends of their hair caught in Maeve's assault. As Maeve's foot came down a second time Cannon Maeve would suddenly find her extended leg crushed and smashing into the marble floor as though it weighed a metric ton.

Cannonade rolled behind Maeve before sending a fist out toward their back, the gravity distorting around it to make it heavier than a normal human's hand, the impact of which would feel like being hit by a wrecking ball.

"I can only get so hard!" A businessman in the crowd yelled, giving Liz an enthusiastic thumbs up as he recorded on his phone.

Maeve stumbled slightly from the impact to her back. Hm. That would bruise later. She spun around, swinging a backhanded fist at Cannonade. She had no expectation that it would connect; her opponent had proven remarkably evasive, and Maeve doubted any of her attempts to be aggressive would connect while she was forced to hold back. If she could draw them in, though…
She stepped forward in a boxing stance, bringing a series of jabs and hooks to her opponent but not fully committing to any of them. Maeve kept her face and midsection open, preparing herself to grab Cannonade immediately if they tried to exploit it - and bracing herself if the superhero opted to use that crushing attack from the fitting room instead.

Cannon dodged the easy jabs, sending a few in return as the two got into a comfortable spar, neither going hard. Her face was constantly open but Cannonade wasn't about to wreck Maeve's pretty smile. The courtesy rule of no face shots went both ways, as far as the Super Roman was concerned. Their stomach however was fair game. Ducking beneath another jab Cannonade fell for the bait, sending a leg forward with a heel coated in weight, not hard enough to damage but hard enough to knock the wind out of the opponent and perhaps open them up for a second onslaught...

"Fighting gives me direction, and also, a raging erection," The businessman called loudly to Liz.

March 11th, 2045, 10:47am: Atlas City, North Carolina, USA

"In Russia, using drugs to enhance or even force manifestations of superpowers are not uncommon," Sasha said, bringing another tray of food and drinks, and setting it down on the center table. "Not only among criminals but among officers of the law. The drugs used today, however... they were on a different scale. I hope that no more finds its way into the city, but I suspect that will not be the case."

March 11th, 2045, 8:30pm: Atlas City, North Carolina, USA

"Adam Socket, obviously," Sasha sneered, flashing his ID to the guard at the Shapeless's main door. "Are you going to let me in or am I going to have to teach you why dumb thugs like you work for men like me?"

The guard scowled, but Adam Socket was on the list, so he quickly stepped aside and let Sasha into the sleazy but popular establishment. Sasha eased his way through the crowd towards the bathroom, stepping inside and closing the stall door behind him. Humming softly to himself, Sasha allowed his disguise to melt into a random stranger he had seen in the line outside, and threw Adam Socket's ID into the toilet with contempt.

The real Adam Socket would wake up in a few hours with a headache and his wallet gone, thinking himself the victim of a mugging. It was mostly true, although Sasha had picked out Mr. Socket as his target for entry into Shapeless almost a week prior, and he had simply tossed Socket's wallet into a garbage can after extracting his ID.

Flushing the toilet, Sasha stepped out of the stall, calmly washed his hands and began making his way to the VIP section of Shapeless. Approaching the arena, a guard reached out a hand to stop him, his companion next to him staring with glazed eyes at the dance floor and dining area.

"Sorry sir, this is VIP only," the guard said in a bored monotone, his smile plastered on his face in top form. "May I see your ID?"

"Aw shucks," Sasha said, his southern accent rolling off his tongue easily. "You know I think I left it at your momma's place."

The guard stared at Sasha for a moment, then his pleasant smile turned into an ugly grimace as the man's pumpkin-sized hand reached out to grasp Sasha's shoulder. In the next second, the guard collapsed, his eyes rolling up into his head as Sasha's fist connected with the man's chin. The second guard did a double take as his partner toppled, glancing around for the man who had assuredly been there only a second ago.

Sasha, for his part, had already moved on, his disguise once again melting into a new person as he stepped up into the crowd surrounding the arena pit. Taking an empty seat not far from the bottom, Sasha stared down at the fight beginning to take place.

So this is what Roma has fallen to, Sasha thought, a small smile on his face. Reminds me of home.

"Heh."
Maeve grabbed Cannonade's leg as it swung toward her stomach, feeling the bones in their ankle grind together beneath her grip. She pulled them off their other foot, left fist connecting hard with their face. Maeve released Cannonade's ankle, bringing her arm up and slamming her fist down into their face again from above before kicking them in the ribs, sending them skidding across the marble floor of the arena.
She walked after them, not bothering to hurry as the spectators shifted from hushed silence to a raucous chorus of boos toward Maeve and cheers for Cannonade to get up and kick her ass.

The first hit connected cleanly and the world went mute. Their jaw snapped out of place as their face flew backward- the black Shapeless mask they wore cracking at the impact. Maeve's other fist followed, slamming down onto Cannon, who managed to bend their neck so the second hit only grazed their well-defined face. Cannonade's left hand went to grab the broken mask while their right reached up to block a kick. Maeve's barefoot mashed into Cannonade's arm, and if it were in slow-motion you could see the very arm-hair wiggle as it absorbed the blow- like trees in a forest flattened by a nuclear blast.

Cannonade was sent flying. Their body rolled across the floor of the arena and then it came to a stop. They lay there for a moment, their rib-cage expanding and shrinking rapidly as they breathed. Their mind raced as they quickly tried to regain feeling and assess the damage to their form. Their jaw was dislocated, their arm was fractured, and... worst of all, their mask was broken.

Their hands reached up to the mask only to find that it was still attached. The bottom half had broken off upon impact with Maeve's fist, just below Cannon's nose, but the rest remained in place. Pieces of the black reinforced plastic lay on their lips. They rose one knee up, and then another, to the cheers of the crowds. Their hands went to their jaw and with a grunt they popped it back into place. They spat pieces of the plastic out.

Maeve approached, lumbering forward at not at all her true speed. Cannonade began to run, like a gymnast, straight for Maeve. And then, in one athletic stride they launched into the air, over Maeve's maw.

Only airborne for a second the last Super Roman came down behind Maeve. They smashed into the floor of the arena, not so hard to be an harmful attack on it's own (without their suit Cannonade could not stand the gravitational pull nor the impact of such a collision) but just enough to crack the black marble that lined it.

Maeve turned to face the injured superstar As they hurriedly collected rocks of marble from the mini crater. Cannonade looked up at Maeve, their eyes locking for a moment, and then spit at the ground. "Heads up, bol-face." They threw a piece of marble rock forward, straight at Maeve's face.

Maeve moved to block the fairly harmless projectile but it unnaturally dipped beneath their arms. The gravity increased rock collided with Maeve's legs and it swept their knees out from under them. It felt like being hit by a car. The giant flew forward and smashed into the earth. Behind them the rock hit the ground, leaving a fiery trail of impact behind Maeve's downed form.

Cannonade threw another piece of marble into the air and brought it down, directly beside Maeve's head. The arena shook as it broke through the floor and continued to borrow, leaving behind an impact hole that descended into darkness. With enough gravity on it even a piece of marble hitting the ground could become deadly as a high velocity bullet.

Cannonade flung the other rocks out into the air before reaching out and sending them plummeting toward Maeve.

"My defining trait is that I'm horny!" The businessman exposited loudly to Liz as he recorded.

Maeve grit her teeth, eyes fixed on Cannonade like a cat that had just spotted the bird which would be its dinner. Maeve's fingers left long gouges in the floor where she'd layed and a cloud of rubble exploding from the impact of her foot as she launched herself as her opponent, the stones in the air embedding themselves in the floor an instant too late.
Maeve's fist went wide over Cannonade's head as they ducked to avoid the blow, only for Maeve to bring her hand down on the back of their head and slam their face into her knee. She planted her foot square in the middle of Cannonade's chest on the rebound, sending them flying back several feet into the opposite wall.
Maeve cracked her neck and stretched the knee of the leg where the stone had struck her. This was fun. This was a lot of fucking fun. Holding back was more difficult than she'd anticipated, but it was definitely worth being sore tomorrow if it meant she could experience an opponent this exciting.
She spit out a glob of thick, tar-like blood from where she'd bit her tongue when being knocked to the ground, then charged her opponent, winding up another left hook.
"Don't break on me yet, Super Roma," she purred.

This time, Cannonade braced. Maeve's jabs were faster now, favouring speed in an attempt to hit the human cannon. And then they felt a hand on the back of their head, for Cannon a very decent 'oh fuck' moment. Luckily, it was softer than the previous hit had been. The facial collision with Maeve's knee was not. They tasted blood in their mouth at the sudden hit before being kicked in the boob. Cannonade was sent flying into the wall. They flung into it like a ragdoll as Maeve charged again.

Cannonade bared their teeth before sliding forward, dodging Maeve's fist and sliding beneath them. With one hand out they grabbed onto anything hard they could grip on Maeve's form. They dug their fingers into the woman's skin and then pulled it to the ground. Maeve was crushed by gravity, smashing into the earth. Cannonade released as Maeve rose their head to look up, only to have the superstar spit a mouthful of blood into Maeve's face. Followed by a right hook.

Cannonade backed away, nearly falling over themself before raising into the air. They floated up as Maeve recovered until they were level with the crowd of spectators. Gasps and faint claps were heard as they came to a stop in the centre of the room, high above the arena floor, holding their head desperately. Another hit to the heat without a helmet would mean crawling to their grave. And Maeve certainly had a thing for headshots.

Cannonade blinked and focused on Maeve on the ground below them. And for a moment the two took a moment to just observe, at such a distance. Yes, distance. They had to keep distance. No more of this close quarters shit.

Super Roma's cannon rose up further until they landed on the curved ceiling of the domed club. They let their body flatten on the uneven architecture for a moment before bouncing off it, down toward the spectators seats around the edge of the sunken arena. Their bare feet touched ground between between two white women in rich dresses and deep cleavage.

"C-C-Cannonade," One of the women guffawed. Cannonade frowned before grabbing a champagne glass from her hand and leaping over the stadium again. As they flew overhead several pieces of the the glass shot down, a dozen shards impacting onto the marble and a thirteenth entering Maeve's body as she dodged. It sliced straight through, coming out the back of her arm. The bloody shard smashed into the ground below her.

Cannonade landed on the other side of the stands, catching their breath and looking for what next they could shoot Maeve with.

In the distance Liz watched the fight intently, her hand grasping on to a wine glass about to throw it at the horny businessman. She watched Cannonade join the audience, throw the glass at Maeve, and then pause, looking around the arena for some kind of weapon to use against the buff Irish woman. Liz pursed her lips and then smiled. The wine glass in her hand suddenly began to change shape, bending, twisting, growing larger and less opaque until finally the wine glass transformed into a bowling ball.

"M-Ma'am?" Margot hesitated from behind her, "Um, is that allowed?"

Liz turned slightly to glance at her personal assistant, her thin hand holding up the red bowling ball in plain view, "What do you mean, darling? I simply found this lying here!"

The Alchemist gave a sly smile and waited to see what would happen next.