Hybrid

[Trenton Vinh]

Fusion. Stars, massive spheres of fire and flame, exist entirely due to the immense power generated by tiny nuclei slamming into one another at near-light speeds.
Light, matter, the entirety of our universe, created by two opposing forces coming together, colliding. The results of the fallout can be devastating or beautiful, sometimes both.

These collision courses often achieve unexpected results, again, some good, some bad. Some both.
When two masses collide with such force, if they survive, they are often bonded together atomically, through a process called nucleosynthesis.
These hybrids can be unstable, dangerous. Often, incredibly destructive. As a testament to this, nucleosynthesis is a chemical process most commonly found inside supernovae.
The point in all this, is that when two opposing forces collide, no one can anticipate the destructiveness. Nor can they anticipate the energy these collisions can create.


Malastare.

The cage smelled of spit, sweat, and blood.
Eight steel pillars, 8 feet high, surrounded the cage, fencing filling the space between them, keeping the crowd outside from reaching in and grasping at the combatants inside.

Bright spotlights shone down into the ring. High above, beings of all shapes and sizes cheered, screamed, jeered and yelled their support for their favoured warrior.

The champion paced his cage territorially. A gold belt weighing 20 pounds draped from his left shoulder. He slung it to the other side, as the crowd continued to roar around him. Calling for battle. Screaming for blood.
He would give it to them, soon. But for now, he waited. So he paced. He flexed and pulled the belt from his shoulder, tossing it to the side. One of his cornermen reached out and caught it just in time, its weight causing him to struggle slightly as his outstretched arms drooped.

The lights began to dim, and the crowd went silent all but for a moment.
A beat could be heard above the dim roar, growing in power. The challenger's men began to enter the stadium, emerging from a tunnel and walking down a path. Fans on both sides waved and screamed as the fighter followed his team down the aisle. Toward the cage. Toward combat.
Walking towards battle, the challenger felt a sense of stillness. The thousands of beings screaming kept his feet moving forward. His hands shook only in the slightest, but he knew it was the pent-up energy and adrenaline, screaming for release. He had to be patient.
If he allowed his body to release adrenaline too early, the fight would be over before it even began. He had to remain in control.
The cold stadium, heated by fifty thousand bodies, echoed as the music continued. As challenger neared the cage, the crowd grew louder.
The anticipation was boiling, and as the challenger came into view of the cage, he was able to see his foe for the first time. Waiting for him.

Both men were strong, fit, fast. Two-hundred and five pounds.
Trained to incapacitate and main any being put before them.

The challenger tore his hooded shirt off, revealing his gloved hands. His shoes came off as well, showing feet wrapped in tight black pressure bandaging.
Inserting a mouthpiece, the challenger walked up the steps to enter the only door to the caged arena. He paused before stepping through the entryway. Bowing his head, he closed his eyes, found the silence within the stillness.
Blue eyes opened, and he found himself staring into the eyes of the champion, standing twenty feet away across the cage.
The challenger entered and the cage door slammed shut behind him as the crowd bellowed.
The Champion stared down his opponent, watching him with a glint of malice in his eyes. Sizing up, scrutinizing.

The announcer, from somewhere outside the cage, called out, "Introducing the challenger, Demarkus Stantson! Standing at six foot, two inches. This means the champion holds a four inch height advantage as well as a three inch reach advantage!
Entering the cage with a professional record of 8 wins, zero losses, this undefeated challenger possesses a skill set that includes kickboxing, muay thai striking, wrestling, teras kasi and is a master of prismatic self-defense."

The words of the announcer were hardly registered by the bloodthirsty audience, who were now going ballistic in the stands. The barricades around the cage were being pushed, and security was rushing to break off fights and scuffles.

Demarkus paced his side of the cage slowly, shaking his hands slightly to allow bloodflow into the tight gloves. He watched the champion as he raised a hand to the sky, as if thanking the Gods of combat for this moment.
The champion looked every bit the part. Muscular, tall, intimidating. He was an Echani. Silver eyes, short cut white hair. The champion was tanned for an Echani. While most were pale, this one's skin tone matched that of a human.
Demarkus knew the style the Echani favoured. Effective, crisp, deadly.
This champion had a long reign. This stadium was home to many of his battles, and he brought an impressive record with him.
With his many wins, his confidence grew. The champion had the crowd as well. While many fans cheered for the challenger, it was no secret that they expected a smashing from their king.

"Its time!" the announcer yelled, and the lights began to flash. The crowd erupted once more, and a loud bell rang. The two combatants moved towards the center of the cage, towards one another.

Demarkus paced his breathing, and raised his hands, curling his left into a fist and holding his right outstretched slightly before him. The champion walked up with both fists held in front of him.
They touched gloves, and the fight was officially on.

Demarkus began walking sideways, away from the champion's dominant hand. The champ followed suit, making it clear he was not afraid to stay in kickboxing range. The champion threw a quick punch, feeling out his foe.
Demarkus hardly moved away from the punch, it was out of range anyway, only thrown to bait him in.
He instead switched directions, started circling the other way, now into the champions power hand.
The champ threw his fist, hard. Demarkus stepped back quickly. Swaying to avoid the punch. It missed, and the follow up did as well.
Mark lifted a leg and pushed it into the abdomen of the champion, pushing him back. Little damage caused other than minor discomfort. The damage would come soon.

As the crowd looked on, the two fighters continued their dance. Feeling one another out, getting an idea of one another's rhythm, the timing.
Demarkus decided he had better push the pace. He stepped in, throwing a jab, then a hook. The champion leaned back and the jab hit nothing but air. The hook missed by a narrow margin, but Markus finished his combination with a kick to the gut of the champion.
The champion grunted and pushed forward, hoping to push Markus back against the cage. In grappling range, Markus threw a quick elbow that glanced off the Champ's shoulder.
The weight pressed into him and Markus quickly found himself against the cold steel cage. He would not be grinded out, so he gripped the champions arms with his own and shoved him, hooking his foot behind his opponent's ankle. The Champion stumbled back slightly, the heel hook not quite enough to trip him. But it left him off balance, and Markus pushed forward. He threw pair of strikes, the jab connected. The champ fired back as soon as he found proper footing, and Markus felt a punch connect. He stepped back, returning to his pacing at kickboxing range. His hands at his sides, he lifted one hand and wiped the fresh blood from his nose.
The crowd screamed as the first drops of blood hit the matting.
The champion, confident booming upon drawing first blood, rushed once more. Demarkus moved away from the power hand and stepped in to jab the champion twice. The lip of the champ bloodied slightly, but he had taken much harder punches in his training. This did little but make him angry.

Mark knew it was time to let that energy go, and as he did he threw a punch. No contact. The champion threw a punch of his own and Markus felt his gut compress with the body blow. He sagged for a split second, before leaping back and making space.
He felt a rib throbbing, possibly broken.
Markus had energy, but the injury would weaken him substantially as the fight continued. He needed to end it soon. In the first round.
With just more than a minute and a half into the fight, the champion had Markus in a do or die situation. If he took another hit to the rib, he would probably not be able to stand.
He had not come this far to lose now. He was undefeated, and for good reason.
Demarkus pushed forwards, his opponent doing the same. For a split second they seemed frozen in time, rushing to meet one another in the center of the cage, before fifty thousand screaming people.

They contacted, both unleashing a flurry of strikes. When both stepped back, both had taken damage. Blood leaking from their mouths and nose. Judging by the way his hand was aching, Markus thought he may have broken his hand.
Some fights were long, brutal affairs. Some were short and sudden. This one would be both brutal and short. Demarkus' sidestepping had lulled his opponent into a false sense of safety. Markus had been careful to pace away from his enemy, then before striking he would move towards the power hand of his opponent.
This time, as he circled away from his opponent's power hand, he switched footing as if to move in to strike once more. The Champion had been anticipating this, as any Echani warrior would have noted the pattern of stepping in before attacking.
The Champ already had a counter-strike primed, and he unleashed a right hand that would knock most humans out on contact.
Demarkus waited a split second, then threw a high kick, torquing his hips.
His wrapped-foot connected with temple, and the champion's eyes rolled immediately. The follow-through forced the champion to topple sideways, hitting the mat shoulder-first. His head slumped against the mat.

The crowd was silent for a moment, and Demarkus turned his back on his downed enemy and raised his arms in triumph. The crowd exploded and Demarkus, the new Champion, caught his new belt as the enemy's cornermen begrudgingly tossed it to him.
Wrapping the belt around his waist, Markus climbed the side of the cage and swung one leg over. Above the crowd, he gave the masses their first look at the new champion.
The announcer was yelling something incoherently, the audience was nearly rioting. Barricades shook and the entire stadium roared.

Medical officials burst into the cage through its door, rushing to cradle the head of the man on the floor, immediately administering first aide. The man's eyes opened and he blinked a few times, his first question was, "What happened?"

Markus dropped from the wall of the cage, looking down at his new belt. Another trophy, another challenge passed.
The newly crowned champion did not smile, however, for his toughest test was yet to come. Taking a belt from a man like that was not an easy task for anyone, but keeping that belt from other hungry challengers would be his legacy.

Demarkus had no intentions of losing what he had now made his.
He would grow stronger, more dangerous, and his enemy's would all fall beneath him.


*****


The news feed rambled on in a tinny drone over the speaker system in the office.
Stantson defeated Riggs in the first round, knocking him out with a stunning headkick. The underdog shocked the world with his brutal dismantling of one of the most dangerous men in cagefighting. With his win, Stantson found himself an overnight star, becoming the most searched name on the intranet userbase. Video of the fight can be seen on...

"I didn't think you were a fan of bloodsport." The Jedi said with a slight smile.
The Chief of State seemed unfazed by the question, and did not even look up from his notes as he responded, "Its exciting stuff."
Most Jedi were pacifists, and the Chief smirked as he added,
"These kinds of fighters can teach you Jedi a thing or two. There's more to it than just who is stronger, or who knows the most flashy moves."
The guardian of the Galactic Alliance nodded his head, "Every battle is of wills."

The Chief nodded, and posed a question,
Now...why is it that a Jedi has been sent to escort me for my journey to Malastare? Has there been a threat I have not been made aware of?"

The Jedi's face offered no hint of dishonesty or betrayal, and as the spectacled Chief of State eyed the younger man, he realized he had no real way of reading the man's body language. The stoic face may as well have been chiseled out of stone.
The Jedi's response was measured, "With the news that it was a Sith who destroyed Coruscant Prime, there are plenty of dangers the leader of the Galactic Alliance must be ready for. I am merely here to advise you on matters of safety and strategy."

"Strategy?"

The Jedi kind-of shrugged, "As Jedi we are more than just defenders of justice. We are also capable of aiding in political and criminal matters, military ones as well."

The Chief smiled slowly, and asked, "What about combat strategy?"
The Jedi's eyes showed a glint that may or may not have been humor,
"Well I am not an expert in cage fighting, but I will offer what advice I can."

[Isaac]

"Stantson defeated Riggs in the first round, knocking him out with a stunning headkick. The underdog shocked the world with his brutal dismantling of one of the most dangerous men in cagefighting. With his win, Stantson found himself an overnight star, becoming the most searched name on the intranet userbase. Video of the fight can be seen on..."

"... on just about every holovid site on the 'Net by now, since you Malastare lot seem incapable of keeping the fight network secure" Solin snarled, slamming a meaty blue fist down on the console to deactivate the new feed.
"Control that Feeorin, Jor'ec, or we will..." Ragato chided, jabbing his stumped digits at Solin and the human that sat stoically beside him, arms crossed over his armoured breast.
"You Dugs are all the same, empty threats and little spine..." Solin snapped at Ragato, swiping the holoprojector from the table and heaving his muscled frame into a chair that was far too small for him.

With a hiss, the doors to the underground office slid apart, allowing entry to a pair of Gran and their entourage of Twi'lek slave girls. One of them appeared old and emaciated, though despite the crude cane he used to support himself, seemed capable of standing on his own two feet. His drooping eyestalks peered through the dim light at those gathered before him, his slack mouth chomping in irritation. The younger Gran hurried to pull up a chair for him, which the slaves helped guide him into.
"What happened?" The elder Gran asked, his voice low but not quite disguising the rage threatening to boil over the surface of his calm composure.
"This sleemo backed the wrong competitor!" Solin growled, pointing an accusing finger at the Dug.
"You're the former fighter, Feeorin. You should've known the underdog eventually prevails. That is how your illustrious career came crashing to a halt, is it not?" Ragato sneered, twirling a flashy tendril around his muzzle as he taunted the larger being. He sniggered to himself at the sudden silence, and turned to the elder Gran. "The situation can be salvaged, if we... urk!"
Solin hoisted the Dug from his chair, his gargantuan hand closed around Ragato's sagging neck, and brought him to face level. One eye glared straight into the frightened Dug's, the other staring blindly off into the unknown. Scarred flesh pulled tight around the Feeorin's lips as he seethed in rage at the Dug, barely able to contain it.
"Enough!" The Gran shouted, slamming his walking cane against the meeting table, producing a sharp crack that rang throughout the room. "Solin, put him down..."
"If you insist" the Feeorin muttered, still not breaking eye contact with the choking and quivering Dug, until he hurled him aside like an unwanted piece of meat. Ragato hit the durasteel wall hard, yelping like a wounded akk hound, and all but slid to the floor to settle in a heap of baggy flesh and gangly limbs.

"The fight was a setback" the Gran's younger aide offered, handing out datapads to the Feeorin and the human who still remained silent, his features obscured in shadow. "Financially speaking, it was a complete blow-out. A near four hundred percent loss. That means the money to buy off and replace the Chief of State's security isn't in the pot either. We're going to have to switch to plan B".
"I've yet to hear from the client" the elder Gran chimed in, "but I have no doubt he will be in contact soon for an update. Now, the latest intelligence suggests that the Chief is travelling with a Jedi..."
"Kark that, I ain't fighting no Jedi. Even I'm not that desperate for a fight" Solin grumbled, folding his arms defiantly over his chest, as if daring somebody to disagree.
"The Jedi isn't the target, Feeorin, but one of you will have to face him if you're to get to the Chief" the elder sighed, rubbing a hand over his pale, wrinkled head. "We haven't the time to devise a new plan, or to draw the Jedi away. We must take the direct approach".
"Not a chance in..."
"Leave the Jedi to me" someone said, in a low, gravelly voice. It seemed to take the room a moment to realise it was Jor'ec, the human, who'd spoke.
"I suppose this means you'll want an increase in pay..." the elder asked tentatively, glancing to his younger aide.

The human rose from his seat, and leaned into the light. He looked young, though beneath the scars and facial tattoo's, it was difficult to determine how young. But it was the eyes, cold, steely, and penetrative, that gave cause for concern. However young he was, he was clearly no stranger to battle.
"The Jedi, I'll do for free" he said calmly, no air of arrogance or bravado about him. "My only demand is I keep what I kill".
"Of... of course" the elder stammered. "And the Chief of State?"
"You'll have him, dead or alive" Jor'ec shrugged, reaching behind him to reclaim his helmet from where he'd left it.
"Alive!" the elder cried out. "I have no need of a diplomatic crisis ontop of all this..."
"I don't care" Jor'ec shrugged, turning back into the light. Somehow, the effect of his T-visored helm was more chilling than his cold stare. "This time, we do things my way. If you'd listened to me to start with, we wouldn't have lost all those creds".

With that, the Mandalorian left the room, his black armour vanishing into the shadows of the passage beyond. Solin, knowing time was now of the essence, grunted and followed suit. They had a narrow window to work with, and Solin knew how Jor'ec hated delays. He rubbed his blind right eye at the thought, then, shuddering, ran to catch up.

[Trenton Vinh]

The gym bustled with activity, despite the early hours of the morning.

Demarkus Stantson started his exercise routine the way he always did; warm-up with stretches and some technique drilling before moving on to weight training.
He worked hard to remain in top condition, but training for a fight was as much a matter of science as it was timing. With the date for his first title defence set -- in three weeks -- he had to make sure he peaked at the right time. If a fighter peaked too early, his cardio might not hold up, if he peaked too late, he would go into the fight sluggish and slower than his foe.

Proper dieting, resting, and training had to be carefully planned in order to ensure he came in at the top of his physical ability.

As Markus began his weight training regimen, he felt his rib tweak slightly. After taking the title, during his post-fight physical the doctor had noted the rib had cracked -- not broken. It was healing well, but since the injury it would occasionally give him slight stabs of pain during exertion. It affected his flexibility in just the slightest, but Demarkus knew by fight time it would be less of a factor than it already was.

Title fights lasted a maximum of fifty minutes, each of the ten rounds lasting five minutes. Fights that went the entire distance would be judged, and a winner decided. But the true warriors forced the finish of a fight, by knocking their opponent out cold, submitting them with a choke or joint lock, or cut and injure them badly enough that the ringside officials deemed the fighter unable to continue.

For Demarkus' first title defence, he would be facing another human, a heavily-tattooed warrior hailing from Kiffu. With a record of 17 wins and only a single loss, Mark knew this opponent would likely be more dangerous than the last. Riggs, the Champion Demarkus had dethroned, had a long career, which gave Demarkus more footage to study and more noticeable habits to exploit.
This Kiffu, named Varus Dieppe, was going to be a unique puzzle.

Demarkus had his opponent's face in his head at all times, day and night. He had already played out a thousand scenarios of how the fight would go in his head. None of the imaginings he had would be like the actual bout. It always played out in an unexpected way. But Demarkus would go in with a smart game plan, and with the adaptability that had taken him this far already.

As he started striking one of the heavy bags that sat along the wall, he began to build a rhythm. Striking was a dance in many ways, and rhythm, of course, is the key to proper dancing. As he struck the bag, he began with simple jab and cross combinations, two punches. Pop, pop. As he bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, and moved around the bag deftly, he began to fire off more rapid combos. Pop, pop, pat.
Upping the tempo, he began landing five and six strikes at a time, ending with a strong blow or kick.

Sweat began to form above his brow, and his arms began feeling heavy as he continued to slam limbs into the bag.
At points in his practice, Mark would close the gap with the punching bag, instead of firing punches and kicks, he would use knees and elbows. The most dangerous of fighters understood the eight points of combat well -- elbows were sharp and short blows that could cut an opponent easily, while knees offered more brute power. If thrown properly, a well-placed knee to the body could buckle an opponent. Knees to the thigh would slow their movement, and of course, a knee to the head often resulted in a knockout.
Not only had Demarkus mastered the use of all eight points of contact, but he also had a deep understanding of how to fight a grounded opponent. When the fight was on the floor, punches and kicks lost much of their use, so a fighter had to know how to control their opponent's body to ensure they did not get too dominant of a position. The fighter on top always has gravity on his side.

Demarkus' game plan involved keeping the fight standing, ensuring he was not put on his back, where his opponent could use superior leverage to land damaging punches.
This fight with Varus Dieppe would be most likely contested on the feet, most of his wins had come by knockout. In his last bout, he had brutally broken a man's leg with a properly timed kick-catch.
Mark wanted to make a point in this fight -- that standing and exchanging with him was a bad idea for any opponent. As the Champion, he had to ensure he built a legacy that lasted, one that made upcoming challengers not just wary of him, but afraid of him.
In order to do this, Demarkus would need to take risks with his foe. Riggs had fallen prey to a simply trick, Mark had led him to believe he was going to strike with something else entirely. This opponent would not fall for such a trick, he would be wary of any patterns Demarkus fell into.

So his strategy would be to never fall into any patterns. Keep his enemy guessing, keep him from gaining confidence.

If he could lure his enemy into a battle of reacting, Demarkus would win without question. He just had to ensure he didn't get hurt early like last time. There was no luck in combat, but Demarkus came as close to lucky as he could get in his last fight. His rib injury could have cost him the fight, so he had to make sure he didn't end up in a position that forced his hand like it had before. Had he not knocked out Riggs when he had, he would have gotten desperate fast.
Winning often led to a psychological block in fighters, they could easily overlook their mistakes made during the fight because they still won. Demarkus was not cut from that kind of cloth; he analysed all his fights, to ensure he would not make the same mistakes his predecessors did.

He had to -- zzzzzt zzzzzt.
Demarkus paused, removed from his thoughts by his buzzer. The device on his waistband flashed, its vibration stopping and a small message displaying. Frowning as he read the short note, he rested a hand on the swaying heavy bag.

Come to the arena for tonight's fights. Your next opponent will be decided in the co-main. IF you get by Dieppe. - Craig

Craig, the CEO of Malastare's Fighting Championship. If he wanted Demarkus at the fights, it was likely just for a few quick shots of the Champion for the vidscreens. Fans loved it when the stars of the fighting clubs showed up to watch other bouts.
Mark had a strange feeling this time, however. He had the feeling Craig had asked him to come for more than simple promotional reasons.
He reread the message, nothing out of place really, it looked typical. But it didn't feel typical, and this intuitive feeling is what gave Mark pause.

He quickly retreated from the gym to shower and change. He had to get ready for the evening's affairs, whether his strange feeling had any credence to it or not, he would find out soon enough.