So much for an easy first job.
Demise had run this playbook before: A quiet heist conducted while the city's heroes were busy elsewhere. Pacify the local civilians, collect whatever item had attracted her attention, and leave quickly and quietly. A clean first job. She'd learned from her previous mistake. Experience had sanded down the rough edges of her procedure until even a heroic response didn't phase her. She'd dismissed Thundriana in less than 3 minutes when she attempted to stop her in Eagleton. She'd put the Pale Strider in the hospital for trying to keep her from snatching the Rabanastre Diamond. Heroes were goofy, sanctimonious, predictable. Barely even worth her time.
She'd assumed the same of the fierce looking Black man in the red and white armor who'd accosted her in the R&D facility of the Meritron Building. He was tall, muscular, and as cocky as the rest. Demise remembered yawning before dropping the stellar engine she'd stolen into the starry abyss of her coat. She'd barely felt anything at all when she'd cast her favorite spell and hurled toward him. Malus Meteora sent her flying through the air and to take her target down with meteoric force. Despite her knees on his shoulders and the solar powered superhero's warm face between her thick thighs, Demise had barely felt anything at all. Heatstroke, as he'd introduced himself, was uncommonly attractive, but she remained unconvinced that he was uncommonly smart or strong. Defeating him, embarrassing him, would be like going through the motions, and she wouldn't feel anything at all doing so. It was all so mundane.
“Listen up,” She said as she called the room to order. She stood at the head of the table, graphs and pictures displayed on the large screen behind her. “We're real and we proved it. We're not some one-off rebellion. We're the Renegades, and the Maji will have to deal with us globally now. That means clashes with the Astral League, the Starseekers, and whoever else they find.” Nedra explained, sitting backwards in her chair at the head of the table. She ran a hand through her dense braids and smiled at the group of agents and majes assembled in the room. Her dark red leather jacket commanded almost as much attention as her confidence did.
“It also means running PR missions for non-Maji aligned countries.” Max said, British accent on full display. “You can run an operation, but civilians need to see us run a campaign.” With his dirty blonde curly undercut and trimmed goatee, Max Winters looked ready for a photoshoot or a battlefield. Like Nedra, he'd also shown up in his typical outfit. Unlike her leather jacket, holsters, and gear just casual enough to blend into a crowd, Max's purple and black bodysuit was designed for absorbing impacts and minimal wind resistance while flying through the air.
“What they need is stability.” Across the table from him, Donojan Oerbas scowled. His wavy silver tresses hung down his brown face in an asymmetric cut designed to obscure his eye patch. “Wars aren't won on the battlefield. They're won in the hearts and minds of the populaces and soldiers involved. Ask me how I know.”
The question was facetious; everyone in the room knew the well publicized story of the crown prince of the nation of Oerbas ascending to the throne 12 months prior amidst rumors of scandal and betrayal only to be ousted after a long bloody civil war led by his wife. Less public was his recent association with a group reviled as terrorists or hailed as liberators, depending on who was talking.
Heatstroke checked the information on his phone one more time before he landed on the ground: a lone metahuman, hostile, no known accomplices, involved in a robbery. Several reports of injuries and property damage, but no fatalities. By all accounts it was the exact kind of situation he excelled at solving quickly and simply. He'd run in there, let his or his squad's reputation precede him, and then, if he was lucky, get to fight a little besides. The thought spread a smile across his brown face as he leapt through the air. The superhero gripped the high collar of his chestpiece with both gloved hands as the ground raced up towards him. Heatstroke grunted with the impact of his boots along the concrete, taking a few running steps to gather himself like a plane landing on the tarmac. He'd gotten more accurate with his massive leaps across town, but timing his solar powers to soften the landing was often more trouble than it solved. Instead he skidded across the asphalt, trying not to warm it beneath him with each step.
It wasn't hard to distinguish which building had been hit: the block had only one building whose facade looked like some giant beast had taken a bite out of its second floor. Debris littered the floor outside the building, and he considered whether to use the front door or enter via the hole that someone else had already made. The latter made more sense, and glass crunched beneath his laced boots as he looked around.
Early November, That Year
Tensions are high at a gym near Los Angeles, California. Women from the gym and beyond are gathered in the MMA cage looking to make new friends and hash out their differences. In particular, all except for one of them attend the same college nearby. Mary, a hardnosed boxer has just challenged Jamila, one of the visitors and a Brazilian Jiu Jitsu specialist, to a sparring round. Who wins in the classic boxer vs submission grappler matchup?
Early November, That Year
A fiery conversation between Simone, college sophomore and rising pro MMA star and Rebecca Meyers, Resident Advisor for a university in southern California and a talented MMA fighter in her own right, has led to this: heated, full contact MMA sparring sessions between Rebecca, her friends, Simone, and her gymmate Jamila. Rebecca’s invited everyone to the gym she and her friends train at, and the leather has flown.
Caught in the crossfire are Theresa and Jennifer, college students, friends to Simone, and Rebecca’s residents.
The last set of sparring rounds saw everyone who stepped up struggle eventually, and in the meantime Jen and Theresa have only previously boxed and are curious about trying mixed martial arts for the first time...
Jennifer McCowan had more questions than answers swimming through her head at this moment. There was a starting point and an endpoint but only confusion in between. It didn't help that her teacher felt ridiculously, impossibly strong, and that every eye in a 10 radius was watching her flounder.
“Rebecca… can you show me again? The first bit… just… what?” The slender woman ran her hand up her forehead and swept a sweaty lock of green hair away from her face. She just wanted to get this right, to impress the older girls who’d deigned to give her the time of day.
“Sure thing, Jen.” The young blonde said with a winning smile. The pair stood up again and resumed fighting stances. At least until the college senior stopped to correct the budding fighter's stance. “Remember, don't stick your leg out like that. I know it's fine for boxing but…” and in one fluid motion the older girl crouched and shot forward, wrapping her arms around the flailing sophomore’s leg and hugging it tightly to her chest. “Here it's just asking to get grabbed and you totes don't want that.” The surly Resident Advisor slapped her resident's pale thigh playfully and backed off.
Jennifer blushed and muttered the advice to herself out loud as she tugged on her gloves; they felt almost nonexistent compared to the big bulky boxing gloves she was used to. Wiggling her fingers while training was still a novel experience.
“Try it on me now, k?” Rebecca waved her in, rousing the lanky brunette from her wild-eyed muttering.
Jen crouched, took a deep breath and crouched, trying her best to emulate her RA's pose. She lunged forward, arms ready and grasping, and locked them around Rebecca’s leg.
Holy shit, she’s got muscles.
Early November, That Year
Thursday arrived like a hungry predator, looming over Simone until it finally descended on her. Jamila Hayes and Simone Waterson stood in an unfamiliar gym’s lobby, bags strapped over their shoulders. Simone had seen it once; the same gym where Theresa and Jennifer rumbled for the first time, where Rebecca seemed to derive a lurid pleasure from beating up an overmatched kickboxer. It didn’t seem so shady midday on a weekday. The bald, scruffy guy by the front desk appraised them warily but relented when a thin brunette waved him off and called out Simone’s name.
“You’re Simone, right?” she inquired as she approached. Simone couldn't tell at first glance whether she was white or Asian, but she was thin, with freckles and a earnest smile. The woman wore an oversized sweater, her bra visible beneath, and yoga pants. Simone nodded in response. “I'm Kelsey, I'm Rebecca’s friend. Glad you showed up!” the woman said as she led the pair through the gym.
Simone merely nodded again, her body tense, hostile.
“And you are…?” Kelsey inquired of Jamila, cocking her head to the side and touching a finger to her chin.
“Jamila. Simone’s big sister,” the curvy fighter said with considerably more warmth than Simone displayed.
“Oh?” Kelsey exclaimed as she clapped her hands together with delight, “I didn't know you had a sister. Do you train too?”
“Yeah I train,” Jamila said, motioning towards her bag, “but we’re not really sisters, more like close friends.”
“Oh.” Kelsey admitted flatly. “That's cool too. Well, we're all in the back by the cage,” She pointed towards the rear of the gym. ”But the lockers are over there if you need to change. It's only a few of us; just hop in the cage when you're ready.” The young woman said sweetly, leaving the two Binary Star gym members behind.
Jamila and Simone exchanged knowing looks before heading towards the women's locker room.
Late October, That Year
The familiar sound of leather striking leather rang out through the South LA gym in fierce bursts. A gym’s striking coach and its brightest prospect, a mother and her daughter. Two women at work.
Paff.
Paff paff paff.
Paff paff… paff.
Late mornings like this almost always found the gym empty; today especially so. No more than a handful of souls occupied the place. In the boxing ring, mother and daughter spoke in between the call and response of gloves and shin guards hitting training pads.
“Mom, you’re really gonna get Jazz a fight? Forreal? Like for real for real?” Simone stammered.
“I meant what I said.” Yolanda Waterson replied curtly as she fed her daughter a punch meant to be parried. “And besides, if I can convince ‘West Coast Warzone,’” the Waterson matriarch paused to visibly shudder at the name, “that she’s an actual live fighter with talent and a misleading record who's willing to fight, they'll be more likely to let you out of your contract early. I can think of a few reasons they'd want a ringer on the payroll.” A wry smile crept across her face.
Mid October, That Year
Things are in motion on a fall Monday night at a major Southern California University. Last Friday night, sophomore roommates Theresa Bayan and Jennifer McCowan settled their feud in a boxing match at the behest of their Resident Advisor (RA) Rebecca Meyers, who organized the whole event and fought in the night's main event.
Now they’re ready to get back to class and homework and upcoming midterms, and hope no one notices the new bumps and bruises they acquired last Friday….
Mid October, That Year
Three weeks ago, two women fought an MMA bout in an invitation only club in Southern California. One suffered a devastating, humiliating defeat. Her boyfriend, consumed with vengeance and a talented fighter in his own right, challenged the victor to a fight, anytime anywhere. They’ve agreed to settle accounts in the small gym where Rebecca “Bliss” Myers, the winner hosts her own small-scale fights every few weeks. It hasn’t been long since “Crystal” Claire Zhang lost: now Rebecca’s looking to prove her superiority once and for all while Gunner “Gunshow” Harrison is dying to avenge, his girlfriend’s honor. The modest crowd has no idea of the bad blood these two took into the fight with them. The fight has produced no shortage of sparks, but those sparks are threatening to catch fire sooner rather than later.
Early October, That Year
“Crystal” Claire Zhang slumped onto the hard stool in her corner of the ring, her chest rising up and down, desperate for air. “Sit up,” her boyfriend chided, and she placed her green MMA gloves on her thighs for leverage as she straightened up and tried to fill her lungs. She'd been in tight spots and desperate situations before, but this had to be the worst night of her blossoming career. Or rather, her blossoming second career, moonlighting as an underground fighter.