Shorts: Ashes and Iron

Part of the shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time.

 

The city was quiet in that eerie, just-past-midnight kind of way. It was just after midnight when the drunks were going home, but morning life hadn't started yet. It was the perfect time to have a rather personal meeting without being bothered with social niceties. 

And so they did. 

Down some piss filled, no name, no one cared about side alley, two men faced each other. No rules. No audience. No need for flare or show. Just years of bad blood and a final reckoning.

With shirts discarded, that time was now. 

Celticfire stood tall, fists clenched at his sides. His blood pumped with a fire any Irishman would know well. Across from him, Unbroken flexed his knuckles and cracked his neck. His breathing was slow and deliberate, but the tension in his shoulders told another story. He has long since passed the "sick of your shit" stage. They had fought before, too many times to count anymore, in various legit boxing and wrestling rings, In cages both newly constructed and rusted and aged considerably with use. Even once in a dusty warehouse full of fools who bet more than they had. But this? Today? This fight was personal.

"Let's finish it," Celticfire spoke, piercing the night with a voice like gravel.

Unbroken didn't answer; he didn't have to. He just charged. The impact was near instant: a dark, unforgiving shoulder to the chest, after which the fists started flying.

The first to score a hit was Unbroken, with fist both wild and without form, driven only by the need to cause pain, managed a mean series of hooks to Celtic's chin. His head snapped every which way from the force of the blows, and soon Celtic tasted blood. A lesser man would have shrunk at this, but not Celtic. It only excited him. 

With practiced battle-forged wits, Celticfire ducked the latest of Unbroken's wild hooks and buried a right straight into his gut. The thud was wet and solid. Sweat and pain mixed. Unbroken grunted but countered fast, swinging a tight hook into Celticfire's ribs. The breath hissed from his lungs. But Unbroken didn't stop; he threw another hook to the ribs. 

Then another. And another.

These rapid-fire punches all aimed and connected to the same spot, each sinking deeper. Celticfire staggered, arms instinctively dropping to protect his bruised sides. But Unbroken was not done yet. The pit of malcontent would not be filled so easily, so he capitalized. 

He drove forward, unleashing a savage flurry that had been held back for far too long. Celtic's vision was blurred as a cross slammed into the side of his face. No defense could be offered as his head was snapped left to right, left to right. Blood and sweat flew above and behind him as a damming uppercut gave no mercy to his chin. Celtic was nearing defeat; Unbroken had no doubt. 

And so he continued.

With ruthless efficiency, fueled by years of hate, jabs, and uppercuts had become weapons of destruction, all aimed straight at Celticfire's stomach. Each landed with a hard thud; each generated various grunts of pain, both forced and humiliating. Sweat dripped down Celtic's chest and bounced at each new blow. His body distorted, bruised, buckled, and gave way. But yet, the onslaught would continue. Unbroken called upon the deepest darkest part of him, throwing it into a new series of devastating attacks. They ended with one landing just below the sternum, bending Celtic forward. Another crushed into Celtic's side, knocking spittle from his lips.

Unbroken smiled; victory was his. But he forgot one fact: Celticfire was built from pain. He was born into it, forged by it, embraced it, and made one. He would face his pain and let it pass through him. 

Celtic twisted, ignoring the white-hot ache in his midsection, and landed a brutal left hook into Unbroken's face. His face distorted from the power of the blow. Ignoring his body's continued protests, he swung wide and hard again. Again, Unbroken's face took the full force, looking more like an exploding water balloon now. And pushed more, Celtic did! With a primal roar coming from deep inside that battered body, Celtic's fist connected hard with Unbroken's ribs. The power manifested in vibrations in both air and flesh. The air cracked with a sickening crack as Celtic felt something shift beneath the other man's skin. Unbroken, he gasped, but before he could retreat, Celticfire launched an uppercut into his abdomen, lifting him an inch off the ground. When his feet touched the ground once more, pain overloaded his being. Unbroken, he stumbled back, one hand wrapped over his stomach. 

The tides were changing.... 

No mercy ever asked, no mercy granted, no mercy ever rewarded. Celtic, drunk with power, fueled by the smell of blood and vengeance, jabbed three times, once to the nose, splitting it open and producing fresh blood to taint the air. The second came to the man's chest, forcing Unbroken to cry out in pain—the third and final, snapping hard into the solar plexus. As Unbroken buckled, his body no longer able to absorb punishment, Celticfire drove a straight punch deep into his belly, the kind of shot that left men dry, heaving, and praying for air.

This was no longer a fight; it was humiliation. Payback. 

Unbroken collapsed to one knee, coughing hard. "Come on," Celticfire growled, his voice laced with the desire for more pain, to torture his prey more. "Stand up."

And somehow, Unbroken did.

He rose like a storm survivor, sweaty, dirty, disgusting, blood at the corner of his mouth. He roared and swung again, catching Celticfire in the face with a desperate hook that was more prayer than anything else. The sound was like meat hitting concrete. Impressed but not moved, Celticfire took two more shots—each to the gut, each staggering Unbroken back. There would be no time to recover as terrible knees came. A devastating, rising shot that smashed into Unbroken's core with surgical force.

Unbroken dropped. One knee down. Then both. His hands were clutching his abdomen.

Celticfire stood over him, fists still raised, chest heaving.

"You're tough," he muttered. "But not unbreakable."

Unbroken looked up, eyes cloudy with pain. He tried to rise, to change, and deny fate, but his body betrayed him. The fight had been ripped from his being, and now every breath was a punishment. 

With a punch hook to the head, it was over. Unbroken lay on the ground, a testament to the power of two men, hell-bent on unleashing hell to its human limits. 

Then, all was silent as the rain began to fall. 

No cheers. No cameras. Just silence and rain. But for men like them, that was enough.