conflict. The air tasted like concrete dust and ozone. Fighters from both the UF and WS factions formed a tense, silent perimeter around the fighting space—a stretch of cracked, uneven slab where the shadows were longest.
Mash planted his weight, feeling the slight give of the dirt beneath his boot. He clutched the long staff, its familiar, heavy grain a comfort. His focus was narrow, tight. Across from him, Cube stood with his characteristic indifference, one hand shoved deep into his hooded sweatshirt pocket, the other holding a small, red lollipop. He looked less like a warrior and more like a kid waiting for a bus.
The only signal was the subtle tilt of Mash's head.
Mash lunged, driving the stick in a short, powerful thrust aimed at Cube's center mass. It was a precise, basic attack. Cube didn't jump back; he simply shifted his weight, pivoting on his back foot, allowing the stick to scrape harmlessly past the front of his jacket. As Mash tried to pull the staff back, Cube's free foot snapped out, kicking a jagged piece of metal to snag Mash's heel.
Mash swore under his breath, stumbling a half-step.
"Clean move, Mash," Cube said, his voice a low, dry murmur.
Mash ignored the provocation, forcing the fight into close range. He used the stick not as a weapon, but as a lever, spinning it tight to ward off Cube's quick counter-strikes. Cube was pure economy of motion: dodging low, leaning away from the blunt force, then immediately using the stick's momentum against Mash by slapping his elbow back.
The crowd watched Mash try to pin Cube down—to apply the strength he had honed through years of rigid training. But Cube was water. He rolled off a high swing, using a broken section of pipe as a momentary handhold to spring straight up, and drove his knee into Mash's ribcage on the landing.
A choked gasp escaped Mash. He backed off, staff held defensively. Cube didn't pursue, instead flipping the lollipop once in the air before catching it precisely between his thumb and forefinger.
Mash knew he had to break Cube's rhythm. He launched a deceptive overhead strike, but at the last second, he dipped the staff low, sweeping it across the ground. Cube saw the feint too late. He vaulted clumsily, the tip of the stick catching his trailing foot.
He landed hard, rolling over a sharp mound of rubble. Cube quickly regained his stance, but there was a flicker of pain in his eyes. Mash had finally forced him to pay for his showmanship.
Mash pressed his advantage, abandoning the stick for a moment to deliver a heavy, shoulder-driven tackle. Cube was driven back into a metal container. He bounced off and, in the space of that rebound, snatched a rusty chain lying nearby. Mash swung the staff, but Cube met it not with a dodge, but with a direct strike—the chain wrapping around the wood.
The sound was a sharp, grating SKRRT.
Cube pulled, leveraging the chain. Mash fought the sudden drag, rotating his body to stop the stick from being wrenched away. Cube let go of the chain, leaving it briefly tangled around the staff, and delivered a blindingly fast, open-handed strike to Mash's temple.
Mash's vision swam. He let go of the staff, staggering back into a concrete column. The staff, momentarily free, clattered against the chain before falling to the ground.
Cube stood over the column, breathing heavily, the usual smirk replaced by a tense, focused line. He reached down, but instead of picking up the staff, he simply pushed off the column and dropped onto his back, completely exhausted.
Mash slid down the concrete, his legs buckling, his hand pressed against his aching head. He didn't reach for the staff either.
The crowd didn't roar. They shifted, realizing the end had come not with a finishing move, but with the sudden, mutual failure of two bodies pushed past their limit.
Cube managed a faint, bloody grin from the ground.
"My move, right?"
Mash coughed, tasting blood. He looked past Cube, past the crowd, and just breathed.
"You need to get up first."
The battle was over. The ground, hard and unforgiving, had claimed them both, leaving behind a silence far heavier than the initial tension.
Would you like to explore how this fight might have started differently, perhaps with a focus on defensive tactics?